life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “moment”

what if? 

Let’s remake the world with words.

Not frivolously, nor

To hide from what we fear,

But with a purpose.


As Wordsworth said, remove

“The dust of custom” so things

Shine again, each object arrayed

In its robe of original light.

And then we’ll see the world

As if for the first time.

As once we gazed at the beloved

Who was gazing at us.


Untitled [“Let’s remake the world with words”] by Gregory Orr

what if you tried something new?

what if you just threw away the rule book and trusted your gut?

what if you allowed someone in to help you, even for a minute?

what if you stopped defending your territory and absorbed some love?

what if you decided to let unexpeted things be the right timing?

what if you created a world where everybody belonged?

what if it’s really just about finding beauty and allowing beauty to find us?

what if you saw that no one is more valuable than another? 

what if you knew, for sure, you are royal, and so am I?

what if you treated everyone you encounter with that assumption?

what if, every single time you wanted to, you made the phone call?

what if, every time you didn’t want to, you didn’t?

what if you began doing all the things you are dreaming of today?

what if these things simple things are all that truly matters? 

what if the future of the world hangs on this iridescent string wrapped loosely around your wrist?

what if you leave for the next great adventure tomorrow, on this earth, or beyond?

what if you ask yourself these things every morning,

out in that field beyond right and wrong?

Amy Lloyd (AL)

rest in the miracle that has always already happened!    – Fred LaMotte

When the world does not conform

to the story in my head

I get a feeling that

“something’s not right.”

Why is the story in my head

not down-loading properly?
Why do I sense that the world

needs to be fixed

and I must repair what is “wrong”

by imposing my story

onto the mystery

of the ineluctable?
Yet the world is not a problem.

The problem is

there’s a story in my head
but it’s not quite the same

as your story, is it?
And so there is conflict,

there is suffering,

even if our stories are about

salvation, about justice

and equality, the perfect

marriage, the cleanest

environment, or gaining

Happiness cannot arise

if we slather the world in the thin

veneer of our narration.

Happiness is the dance

of atoms ordered by

the dynamics of chaos

in the heart of the now

when we let both story

and teller disperse

like a fine mist,
when we let things clarify

all by themselves

the way silt filters and falls

through a mountain brook

in liquid transparency.
Now rest in the miracle

that has always

already happened.

Just shut up and see.

A rain cloud vanishes.

There are crystal drops on

blades of grass, each containing

the sun.


Let us go forward quietly, forever making for the light…

   Vincent Van Gogh 

these anniversaries 

the marking of dates

building Ebenezer memorials 

from the stones of help

bringing me to this place

tasting again

the bitter herbs

the roasted lamb

the flat bread

the milk and honey flowing over everything 

the fresh dates and figs 

of now

sitting with this



this life

this love

this past

this practice 

this present 

this grateful 

that gratitude 

that changing

this constant

this birth

this death

this resurrection 

always this love

ah this love




always the path of thanks

always the gifts presenting 

along the diamond road

this is my tradition

my version of holiday 

each one

my best of days

my worst of days

feeling it wrapping around my senses

these memories clouds 

wrapping around me

enveloped from behind me

me always facing forward

always facing toward the rising moment just ahead

the path before me the most important 

always remembering,

along with that other Southern Belle…

tomorrow is another day…

the best is always yet to be! 


AL 7/23/16 gratitude/tradition



                            is beauty                



        by rare moments                                           

of exquisite suffering.    


    is suffering               



           by rare moments                                           

of exquisite beauty.    



Duality of Life Mug

there’s this summer song

of cool wind on my skin, 

playing sweet percussion through the tall, lush marsh grass

gentle water

invisible birds singing in surround sound

my heart resonates with the language we have spoken

the songs we have sung

the rich vibrations of our connection

over the past few days

the new sun warms my back

my shadow sits large

writing poems

this silence my gratitude

this morning my pleasure

this day my gift

this moment my life

thank you for reaching out 

for breaking through the darkness

for holding my hand


The worst isn’t the last thing about the world. It’s the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It’s the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well. 

     – Frederick Buechner 

      The Final Beast

Then I walked 

straight forward

out of the gate,

through the wood,

along the river,

toward the mountain
and I thought of the future

I could make in the world

if I walked toward it

like this,

with my face toward the hills

and my eyes full of light

and the earth sure

and solid beneath me,


with a fierce anticipation,

and a faithful expectation,

with the sun and the rain

and the wind on my skin

and that old sense…

of many paths

breaking from one path.
So learning to walk

in morning light

like this again,

we’ll take our first 

light step

toward mortality,


out of the garden,

through the woods,

along the river,

toward the mountain,

its simple,

that’s what we’ll do,

practicing as we go


we’ll be glimpsed, 

traveling westward, 

no longer familiar,

a following wave,

greeted, as we were at our birth,

as probable 

and slightly 

dangerous strangers,


coming into view,

someone about

to find out.
Some wild 

and improbable risk 

about to break 

on the world again.
David Whyte



New and Selected Poems

light & shadow

Of the light in my room:

Its mood swings,

Dark-morning glooms,

Summer ecstasies.
Spider on the wall,

Lamp burning late,

Shoes left by the bed,

I’m your humble scribe.
Dust balls, simple souls

Conferring in the corner.

The pearl earring she lost,

Still to be found.
Silence of falling snow,

Night vanishing without trace,

Only to return.

I’m your humble scribe.

Secret History by Charles Simic 

Sleep hangs in soft evening light

in the corners of the room –

like an old pair of favorite pants,

slightly baggy,

immensely comfortable,

a few worn-thru patches of natural ventilation. 

Soft, favorite, go-to pants 

for days off. 

Those ones always ready to take you anywhere in comfort,

on a day where you are

not trying to impress anybody –

just need to be the real you. 

Stripped of pretense. 

A day where dreams can change your living, 

and love songs can overflow inside

from start to finish. 

You eat dinner with friends. 

Savoring moments. 

Hoping this day of summer 

will linger long

like honey on your fingers 

after the toast is gone. 

Sweet and sticky,

clinging to everything. 

Extra goodness

for the tongues finding. 

Shadows fall. 

The day drops it’s load 

and lets go. 

Relaxing into nothingness,

eyes begin to see 

the spaces between worlds. 

Beauty fills the air,

waiting for me. 

In the quiet of the night,

I lie alone,

yet not… 

I am loved. 

Aware, as I float away,

just how magical 

a moment can be. 



going on  

You have burned your bridges.

You have passed through the gate

marked “no return”

And for you there is no going back

No going back to the security of

the known, familiar house,

To the well-worn dispensations

and the threadbare coverings.

Now you are out there in uncharted


heavy with threat and shadows not

yet entered.

The risks are high, and yet you

strike out boldly,

Guided only by unwavering conviction

And the longing for the true centre

of the land.

This is what it means to do a new


So, you travel lightly.

You are abandoned, given up in all


To the task that lies ahead.

Therefore, you may be exactly who

you are.

You have inhabited yourself,

You are at home,

And home is where you are,

Even if it is the desert.

No one can dispossess you of your own in-dwelling.

This is what it means to be free.

We stand, one foot upon the bridge,

Wondering if we too have the courage to go over

And strike the match behind us.


The Dream of Learning our True Name by Kathy Galloway 

Trees not yet leafed out,

the woods aren’t green,

just tiny flakes of green
in their childish little hands,

soft and small.

Something larger than them
from deep down stirs,

exceeds itself in them.

Among those who dare
a new thing

God grant me

such ancient courage.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

photo sources found at



yet so very complex

the layers of this human experience 







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 


and we are each




our happiness

was when the

lights were


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

you sick

in bed & me

writing ambitiously

by candle light

in thin blue

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 

we sat on a stoop

one day 

in the
 late afternoon

we had very little

enough for

a strong cappuccino

which we shared

sitting there 


 city was lit.

our happiness by Eileen Myles

sweetness: honey, tangerines and black-faced sheep


On this bitter-sweet morning

I spot the jar, 

and slowly, 


lick the white-golden sticky. 

Spun honey directly from the spoon. 


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. 

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. 



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 

arriving. departing. 


 Above the mountains 
the geese turn into

the light again
painting their

black silhouettes

on an open sky.
Sometimes everything 

has to be

enscribed across

the heavens
so you can find 

the one line

already written 

inside you.
Sometimes it takes 

a great sky

to find that
first, bright

and indescribable

wedge of freedom

in your own heart.
Sometimes with

the bones of the black

sticks left when the fire 

has gone out
someone has written 

something new

in the ashes

of your life.
You are not leaving.

Even as the light 

fades quickly now,

you are arriving.

The Journey by David Whyte



photos found at





 We talk about balance…
as if…

we can actually achieve such a thing

in this, 

the odd numbered trinity-teeter-tottered

kaleidoscope of a heart, soul and mind

living within the human pie crust 

we name skin!
It is our work

our great career –

to keep opening to the liquid mystery 

of living in this very moment. 

Free will choice,

our supreme gift –

our supreme curse. 
Oh, yes, 

we want things fixed. 

We want to know,

to define truth,

to arrive and settle,

to judge others through our personal lens,

to be right, of course. 
How do we live with the reality of ‘seeing in part’,

through a ‘dark veil’,

with just glimpses of the light in the night sky,

we fish in the darkness,

trying to catch one small piece of a star at a time,

just to have it burn out,

leaving us to go back and try again?
This is the life of the seekers, 

the mystics,

the warriors,

who have been seized with the firm belief –

that life matters. 

That love is the way to healing. 

That there is always more of God to be had. 

The mystery gets bigger with each illumination. 

The balance comes from allowing it all. 

Good. Bad. 

Joy. Sorrow. 

Sickness. Pain. 

Poverty. Wealth. 

Even the broken path,

the truth and the lies,

have eternal divine purpose. 

Our task to 











keep letting go,

keep changing,

be present,

through it all. 
We dream the large dreams of living into our best selves. 

We focus intently on each small task before us. 

We think,

We listen,

We give,

We receive. 

We speak, when necessary. 

We walk daily in vigilance. 

Letting the legacy of each day stand on it’s own. 

We live knowing our next choice is always our most important….

and so it goes

and so it goes




Sometimes you have to leave 

what you think you know


No one ever really wants to do this.

Knowing things

can be very comforting.

All day, soul whispers

what I need to know.

I don’t hear her

until I lay aside

cherished beliefs and assumptions

until I dare to be with the not-knowing.

And then. . . . 

Well, that’s the risky part, isn’t it?

There is no telling 

what living an ensouled life

might ask of us.
~Oriah “Mountain Dreamer” House
So this is where I am in writing the book, “The Choice,” -on the great plain of not knowing, offering myself- pen in hand- anyway. Each day, the darkness yields to the light, and words hit the page, surprising me. This is what it’s like: the light coming again and again, the darkness making the illumination breath-taking.




find photos at

finding center


 I think that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; 
A tree that looks at God all day, 

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 
A tree that may in Summer wear 

A nest of robins in her hair; 
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 

Who intimately lives with rain. 
Poems are made by fools like me, 

But only God can make a tree.


Trees by Joyce Kilmer

photo by Jen Lemen


 The simplest things in life 

Are the most extraordinary 

Let them reveal themselves. 

– Paulo Coelho 


There is magic in every little thing. 

Your very breath is magic 

You, showing up on this tiny planet, 

at this very time in history. 

The way the sun glints off your hair. 

The way the trees recognize you. 

The way a child can turn their head 

and plunge you into grief. 

it’s all about perspective. 

Einstein reminds us 

We have a choice in how we live. 

One of two ways – 

As if nothing –


As if everything –

Is miraculous. 

I’m so glad I choose to see the enchanted pathway. 

It’s always a fine day here. 

No matter what circumstance I find myself in. 

Magic abounds.  




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



Photos by Fisherman Dan @ Branford CT

Listen to Keb’ Mo sing Closer 

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