life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “Miracles”

suddenly


simple

yet so very complex

the layers of this human experience 

energy

emotional 

baggage

layers

fears

behavior

we struggle with virtues

our humanity

our ego

our need to be accepted

with family dynamics

childhood evils

haunt us

like fairytales

we create stories

we sabotage our own living

trying to heal

to find acceptance

to be loved

to figure out our path

to untangle our pain

our bad choices

the choices of others

our destructive relationships

suddenly after an eternity

a lightening bolt hits

clarity comes

we see why

we let go

we forgive

as fall into a deep pool

of peace

where we begin again

from this place

to build new stories

and make new dreams

this will be our new platform of learning

until it happens again

and again

and so our story unfolds

always leading us towards our best selves

if we will just be open

and do the hard work

of surrender

of resilience 

of continuing 

of allowing ourselves

of becoming ourselves

knowing we are 

strong 

and we are each

beloved

❤️

AL


our happiness

was when the

lights were

out

the whole city

in darkness

& we drove north

to our friend’s

yellow apt.

where she had

power & we

could work

later we stayed

in the darkened
 apt. 

you sick

in bed & me

writing ambitiously

by candle light

in thin blue
 books

your neighbor had

a generator &

after a while

we had a little

bit of light

I walked the

dog & you

were still

a little bit 
sick

we sat on a stoop

one day 

in the
 late afternoon

we had very little
 money. 

enough for

a strong cappuccino

which we shared

sitting there 

&
 suddenly 

the
 city was lit.
🌃

our happiness by Eileen Myles


just pay attention  


a poem can write itself in a moment –

a snapshot written in the soul –

a worded,

or wordless,

recognition of beauty,

the endless evolution

and creation,

which surrounds our steps

and walks with us

as we dance through our lives. 

A few examples:

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. 

🍊

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?

📖

   – Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society 


refining thoughts


 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.
😄

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.

☺️

    – Dana Gioia

Sometimes my words

stick 

inside my pen. 

Hidden within the

inky blood,

refusing to flow. 

Dammed up

blockage of

frozen heart,

stubborn mind,

unwilling soul,

refusing to know,

what is already known –

heard 10 thousand times

between the lines

of shaded eyes

refusing to grow. 

🙃

AL

love o’ my heart 

  
I will make you brooches 

and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning 

and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me

Of green days in forests 

and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, 

and you shall keep your room,

Where white flows the river 

and bright blows the broom,

And you shall wash your linen 

and keep your body white

In rainfall at morning 

and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music 

when no one else is near,

The fine song for singing, 

the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, 

that only you admire,

Of the broad road that stretches 

and the roadside fire.

🌺

I Will Make You Brooches by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

 This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.  
🌸

         – Rumi

  

Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.  

💋

    – Ilsa Lund, Casablanca

goodness runs wild everywhere 


Too bad you weren’t here six months ago,

was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska.

You could have seen the astonishing spectacle

of the sandhill cranes,

thousands of them

feeding and even dancing

on the shores of the Platte River.

There was no point in pointing out

the impossibility of my being there then

because I happened to be somewhere else,

so I nodded and put on a look of mild disappointment

if only to be part of the commiseration.

 

It was the same look I remember wearing

about six months ago in Georgia

when I was told that I had just missed

the spectacular annual outburst of azaleas,

brilliant against the green backdrop of spring

 

and the same in Vermont six months before that

when I arrived shortly after

the magnificent foliage had gloriously peaked,

Mother Nature,

as she is called,

having touched the hills with her many-colored brush,

a phenomenon that occurs,

like the others,

around the same time every year when I am apparently off

in another state,

stuck in a motel lobby

with the local paper and a styrofoam cup of coffee,

busily missing God knows what.

☕️
The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska by Billy Collins

On vacation I witnessed
birds and whales

that had traveled farther than I.
They take with them

their memories, their songs

and the sacred longing
that guides their migrations,

that leads me

in all my rambling,
the silent knowing

that seems like hunger,

seems like not knowing,
the sure desultory path

that is life, the way

that is the blessing,
the holy wandering

to life that awaits,

always toward you.
__________________

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

them bones… them dry dry bones

  
Around 15 years ago now

I took a business trip 

Somewhere in the middle of Florida

I was hostess for a community meeting

to talk about a new electrical line route and sub-station 

proposed for this area

by the electric company I worked for at the time

I was with a team 

We stayed in a local bed and breakfast

I had breakfast with a married couple 

from somewhere west of Orlando,

can’t remember the town,

who were prophets of God. 

Don’t ask me how I know,

I just do. 

I was still learning to open to mystery

(my fundamental Baptist background 

was being constantly challenged)

and I was early in my ‘testing’ to find out if God was really real,

I was early in my healing from the abuse, 

shattering and loss I had gone through in the past years of my life. 

Then, somehow, this couple and I were alone together –

the rest of the team out checking out the project route. 

I ended up in their room.

I told them some of my story. 

I sang for them. 

They prayed over me,

anointed me with oil,

proclaimed and prophesied my future. 

They wrote prophesy down on paper,

then burned it in the fireplace. 

It was all a little weird and surreal,

more than a little scary,

and yet I knew they were sent there, 

at that very place and time,

because God sent them there for me. 

I do not know their names,

I never saw them again,

the business card they left me had a number which was not active – 

Curiosity made me call that number a few weeks later. 

Number not in service. 

I never told anyone about this. 

It was a very strange episode I kinda ignored. 

I’ve never spoken, or written, about it since,

until now,

all these years later. 

It keeps coming back to me lately,

since I recently spent an unexpected evening with 

one of those project team members I was traveling with on that fateful trip.

I still don’t understand it,

but I am grateful,

I realize how far God’s grace has lead me 

since the day of my unexpected, mysterious, anointing. 

AL

  
  
  

sweetness: honey, tangerines and black-faced sheep

 

On this bitter-sweet morning

I spot the jar, 

and slowly, 

deliberately,

lick the white-golden sticky. 

Spun honey directly from the spoon. 

Remembering…

my Grandma Duvall 

always had spun honey, 

and so many other beautiful treats,

at her house.

As a little girl,

I loved it…

I love it still –

tho it goes right to my head,

and makes me a bit dizzy. 

Buzzz…..Buzzzzz 
Mature tastebuds know…

there must be balance. 

Wisdom is learning to choose balance.

I think of how kind words are compared to honey. 

How important it is to choose the sweet,

right in the middle of the bitter,

the choice is all mine. 

I suck the last bit off the spoon,

and move along into my day,

carrying the smile,

the sticky, sweet, stolen glow,

of that moment with me. 
A bit of healing sweetness

right there in the kitchen. 

A bit of amazing grace 

right in the mess of my moments. 

A bit of heaven, 

right here and now, 

on a mixed – up Monday. 

🐝

AL

  
To love everything, not just parts … 

To love all of yourself, not just certain traits … 

To rest in not knowing … 
To carry the cross 

and to lay your burden down … 
To savor the medicine blue of moon, 

the fierce sugar of tangerine … 
To be a Christ unto others, 

a Christ unto one’s self … 
To laugh … 
To be shameless, wild, and silly … 
To know—fully, headlong, 

without compunction—the ordinary magic 

of our beautiful human bodies … 

these seem worthwhile pursuits, life-long tasks.   

All is grace. 

selected from/ A Poem for My Daughter by Teddy Macker

  
It is the work of feeling,

to undo expectation.

A black-faced sheep

looks back at you as you pass

and your heart is startled

as if by the shadow

of someone once loved.
Neither comforted by this

nor made lonely.

Only remembering

that a self in exile 

is still a self,

as a bell unstruck for years

is still a bell. 

🔔

Sheep by Jane Hirshfield

 

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

love is in the air 

 

HAPPY EASTER! 

   

  
I open myself to Your love

I move into being Your beloved

I allow myself the gift of confidence

I allow my insecurities to drift away

I stop trying to impress you with my gifts

with my ability to love you enough

I don’t have to prove anything

I have to be willing to trust

The keys to the kingdom 

come through my laying down 

surrender

like you on that cross

for one reason only

because you love me passionately 

I can’t help but love You

I will give up my way

and trust Your plan

Your resurrection

Your love

no matter what comes

running with patience

knowing that it’s all for my good

because I know You 

You have restored my soul

You have given me life

Surely goodness and mercy

now follow me everywhere 

like cute puppy dogs

playing on the green grass 

licking my face 

with happiness

love keeps changing me

every flower is grace

🐰

AL

  

Good Friday 

 

 Copperleaf Lane is dancing in white,
like a row of brides,

as ready, 

as they possibly could be 

to say, I do. 

I drive through the flower strewn pathway

feeling special,

like life is unfolding,

just for the love of me.  

I am beloved, 

a daughter of graces,

twirling within this beauty,

this bounty,

the world’s abundance falling freely around me. 

I sing,

la dee da dee da

You keep filling my senses,

you keep walking towards me,

smiling,

that beautiful heart of yours,

held gently, 

tenderly,

within your hands –

the perfect gift

for a girl like me. 

Heaven is holding its breath…

counting intensely…

1…

2..
❤️

AL

  
  
TURNING TOWARD HOME 
The moment you have spoken the exact words that describe your distance from where you want to be, the moment you have uttered the exact aching dimensionality of your own exile, you have already turned around, faced the other way and taken the first steps on the long awaited journey home… 

🌳

David Whyte

THE THREE MARRIAGES

Re-imagining Work, Self and Relationship

   yesterday I was born a leaf

a small fragile tender wisp

trembling as I hung on the vine

yesterday I was a gust of air

short lived, but not insignificant 

full of bone rattling cold and hat disturbing bravado

yesterday I was a large, slow, snow flake

plopping down like a wet goose feather

making the world a magical place

yesterday I was a world made of glass

lying shattered on the floor

hoping to be recycled into a new and useful object

yesterday I was various people

a student, a host, a friend, a lover

feeling my way into the next moment hoping to find a way home

yesterday I stood tall as a tree

proud yet with humble confidence 

accepting what winter brought, gently weeping, 

embracing this brand new life bringing

spring

🌿

AL
 

here’s the thing…

what’s a girl to do with all this happiness?

what sort of containers can hold this amount of wild joy?

will howling at the moon help disperse it into the world?

or dancing in a beautiful fountain, with you, bring sanity?

what if I shout it proud to everyone I pass on street? 

will they clap to hear my good news? 

will you wish me happy for every morning and evening? 

will you take a train, plane or automobile to see me? 

will you hold me & tell me that I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?

will you love me with all you are for everything I am right now,

and ever will be becoming?

living well is my best revenge

won’t it would be nice to share this happiness? 

do wild and crazy things?

come on, everybody,

let’s let joy flow in big puddles all around us,

till we jump like children,

till we swim in the ocean of all this blessed grace

🌫

AL

black n white

 

find more amazement from Tyler Spangler @  http://tylerspangler.com
🌗
I reason, Earth is short —
And Anguish — absolute —
And many hurt,
But, what of that? 

I reason, we could die —
The best Vitality
Cannot excel Decay,
But, what of that? 

I reason that in Heaven —
Somehow, it will be even —
Some new Equation, given —
But, what of that?

🌗

I reason, Earth is short… (301) by Emily Dickinson

 

 
I sink back upon the ground, expecting to die. A voice speaks out of my ear, You are not going to die, you are being changed into a zebra. You will have black and white stripes up and down your back and you will love people as you do not now. That is why you will be changed into a zebra that people will tame and exhibit in a zoo. You will be a favorite among children and you will love the children in return whom you do not love now. Zoo keepers will make a pet of you because of your round, sad eyes and musical bray, and you will love your keeper as you do not now. All is well, then, I tell myself silently, listening to the voice in my ear speak to me of my future. And what will happen to you, voice in my ear, I ask silently, and the answer comes at once: I will be your gentle, musical bray that will help you as a zebra all your days. I will mediate between the world and you, and I will learn to love you as a zebra whom I did not love as a human being.

🌗

I sink back upon the ground… by David Ignatow

🌗

 
In “Farewell to Arms” Ernest Hemingway wrote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

       – Ocean Palmer quotes EH   
   
photos found at http://www.pinterest.com

 

Little bird why you singin’ that sad song?

Makin’ me cry as I sing along

Did you know that your cage doors open wide?

All ya gotta do is just step outside. 
Can’t nobody stop you
Cause you were born to fly

Til you touch the sky

Friends with every tree

You were born to be free

And I’ll dance along 

To your freedom song
Little girl why you singin’ that sad song?

Cause he robbed you, now you’ve got no home

Think you’re stuck, locked inside of this damn cage

broken heart, broken dreams upon this page 
Little boy I know that song you sing

She’s not right, you can do anything. 

Cause your so much stronger than these chains. 

you are free and your freedom bells just rang
Can’t nobody stop you
Cause you were born to fly

Til you touch the sky

Friends with every tree

You were born to be free

And I’ll dance along 

To your freedom song
If we don’t use it

We ain’t free

It’s our choice 

It’s up to each

If we don’t choose it

We won’t ever be

Everything we were born to be
Can’t nobody stop us
Cause we were born to fly

Til we touch the sky

Friends with every tree

We were born to be free

Won’t you dance along 

To our freedom song

🌗

AL

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