life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “mystery”

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


smiling’s my favorite… 


Days the weather sits

in the endless sky,

the clouds drifting by.
The winter’s snow,

summer’s heat,

same street.
Nothing changes

but the faces, the people,

all the things they do
‘spite of heaven and hell

or city hall—

Nothing’s wiser than a moment.
No one’s 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.

😂

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

😘
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

🎼

AL


Don’t leave home without your sense of humor. Don’t come home without it either.

    – Robert Moss

blowing in the wind


And you have only just now

accepted the grace!

These fragments of your life,

the broken lines,

the missing phrases,

endings that don’t quite

rhyme, beginnings

that die in non sequitur,

stillborn ellipses

of awkward syntax

silently holding hands 

as you disappear

around corners together

alone again, until

suddenly it falls 

into place

as a single poem

needing no interpretation

because the mystery

of your beauty fills

all its empty spaces…

☺️

Fred LaMotte


Good poetry begins with

the lightest touch,

a breeze arriving from nowhere,

a whispered healing arrival,

a word in your ear,

a settling into things,

then like a hand in the dark

it arrests the whole body,

steeling you for revelation.
In the silence that follows

a great line

you can feel Lazarus

deep inside

even the laziest, most deathly afraid

part of you,

lift up his hands and walk toward the light.

  The Lightest Touch by David Whyte

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



sometimes


Sometimes the wind that strips everything

is the strong breathing of a yes.
The river of life wears away your little island

and bears you somewhere fertile. 
Receive the gift only departing can bestow,

the holy not in what is anointed
but in what is next,

the beginning beyond the silence beyond the end.
In thickest darkness is a door felt, not seen.

It gives. 
Beside you in confidence 

God is uncompleting the journey for you.
Lay your hand on the dark door. A voice 

says, “Come, join my becoming.”
__________________ 

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net


There was a definite cracking sound

It came from that place inside

Secret Deep 

Like the milky way

Or the center of the earth

Or heaven

More possibly hell 

– At least half way to one or all of those places

Like winter ice in the springtime thaw

The sound was unmistakeable

Now i feel it moving outward from that secret place

Like an inchworm 

Made of glass

Or razor blades

I wonder if half of me will 

suddenly

Melt down onto the floor

Like a bizarre murder in an action movie

Where the camera stays still

watching 

to catch

The guy who just got slashed through 

From the sword of justice

Looking normal 

for suspended moments 

Then

Slowly

The smile still on his lips

One piece slides to the floor

While the other stays upright 

To the delight 

of the eager

 bloodthirsty 

cheering 

audience

All of whom I know

🗡

AL



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 


color me green






within the spaces between silences

there grows a green vine

with beautiful fruit

hanging

luscious

calling

healing

bountiful 

filling

loving

living

deep

juicy

running down our chins and elbows

until we fill with joy

and laugh with delight 

until we face our sorrow

and allow our salt to run and heal our wounds

until we feel what we need to feel

and let these emotions have their way with us

until we embrace this mystery 

and open our arms to life

this, 

my friends, 

is how I define the word:

music

💚

AL

🌎🌍🌏

photo sources found at http://www.pinterest.com. /al513/shadesofgreen

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

go your own way

 

 a thousand miles
in silence 

a thousand miles 

alone

a thousand miles

to get here

a thousand miles

to go

a thousand smiles

to cheer me 

a thousand more

to know

a thousand miles

of learning 

a thousand more

I’m home

🏡

AL

 

 The path of the spiritual warrior is not soft and sweet. It is not artificially blissful and feigned forgiving. It is not fearful of divisiveness. It is not afraid of its own shadow. It is not afraid of losing popularity when it speaks its truth. It will not beat around the bush where directness is essential. It has no regard for vested interests that cause suffering. It is benevolent and it is fiery and it is cuttingly honest in its efforts to liberate itself and humanity from the egoic ties that bind. Shunning strong opinions in the name of spirituality is anti-spiritual. Spirituality that is only floaty-soft is a recipe for disaster, allowing all manner of manipulation to run amok. Real spirituality is a quest for truth, in all its forms. Sometimes we find the truth on the meditation cushion, and sometimes we find it in the heart of legitimate conflict. May all spiritual warriors rise into fullness. This planet is lost without them.
    – Jeff Brown

  

 

 

again and again

  
This world doesn’t improve by demanding perfection. It improves when we reach through our armor and touch another with tenderness. It improves when we bust through the walls of our conditioning, and try a new way of being on for size. It improves when we work through our unresolved shadow and share what little light we can find. It is the small, positive steps that we take when we are at war with ourselves that change the world.

   – Jeff Brown 

awe…

examination…

it keeps appearing 

again…

I delete…

and again…

I delete…

and again

haven’t I already written this poem?

haven’t I already done that before?

What is left…

that I don’t know…

that I haven’t taken out…

haven’t examined properly?

There are always more layers

An onion…revealing more onion

layers…

upon layers…

illusions,

shadows,

truth left to excavate,

healing to be won,

motivations to uncover,

mystery to be discovered,

always more. 

God keeps getting bigger

as I examine,

I reduce,

I open. 

help me to stay in this mode of learning…

growth…

humble me…

soften me…

my best self emerges within this process

send it again…

remind me again…

💞

AL

   
 
  

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