life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “Poetry”

the hum of Sabbath and poems


There will be the clutter and clatter of pans,

the rumble and jumble of traffic and trains,

the brambles of papers and lists and calls,

the beaten paths, the errands, the chores.

You don’t have to rattle and run with them.

You can do one thing at a time.

You can stop 
and sit at the feet of the moment,

pay reverent attention to whatever it is,

and listen to the silence beneath the hum,

and simply be

in the the presence of the presence.

In all your doing that you surely must do,

you still can just be.

And your being

will become

what you do.

In the stillness within the action

sits the Beloved

who is not distracted with many things,

but only wants to sit awhile 

with you.

__________________

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

I was reading…
yes, that was it…
reading…

poetry…
then I was awake…
and it was late afternoon…
and I felt heavy,
but so grateful,
to be able to finally get that rest,
to hear that sweet sound of rain,
to feel the soft of the squishy pillows,
to smell the fresh cut flowers by my bed,
to experience the healing power
of sleep. 
to gain the clarity. 
to allow the next question. 
to prepare for the hard next steps.
to feel ready.
sleep is a magic source of strength.
a necessary part of living well.
But, really, I was just reading poems…

πŸ˜΄πŸ’€πŸ’€

AL


Poetry is the art of the spoken word, a tapestry of emotion sparked by a single phrase, that impacts the deepest resonances of a heart….that holds it’s meaning through history.

πŸ’ž

By AllPoetry fan, Taylor S.

πŸ’ž

Do you agree? 

How does poetry impact you?



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

how far will you go? Β  Β  Β 


Better to live your life open rather than exist on borrowed time, waiting for the great unmasking.

      – Kate Jacobs


love is the flame
all people yearn for the flame

some people never discover there actually is a flame

some people ignore the flame

some people avoid the flame 

some people examine the flame

some people research the flame

some people control the flame

some people fear the flame

some people are fooled by fake flame

some people admire the flame

some people use the flame

some people walk on the flame

some people dance with the flame

some people dance in the flame

some people become the flame

some people are consumed by the flame
your choice…

how will you burn?

πŸ”₯

AL


Those who are drawn to the root of love are mystics. Mystics are not satisfied with the surface patterns of love, with the emotional tangles and insecurities of human loving. They seek a purer wine, a more potent passion. They need the essence of love, its divine substance.

         ~ Irina Tweedie


On the day I died

water ran through pipes,

footsteps identified people in the house and

the dogs nails clicked quickly on the wood floors above my head,

insisting it was time to go out for relief. 

I still needed coffee,

light with cream,

2 sugars. 

The sun was bright 

and I remember the sky was that deep blue,

romantically named, azurite. 

There was cockscomb, 

half alive in pots near the wooden footbridge I walked over. 

I used to love them when I was alive. 

I touched their red, velvety, blooms seeking to feel something. 

I mistook fluttering angel wings for birds,

battles fought,

 just beyond where I lay

on the words of Wendell Berry –

the only thread

keeping me tethered to this world. 

I sat on benches beside ghosts 

of those who had gone before me. 

I could still only feel them beside me,

I was in the world between worlds. 

There was darkness, a fire swamp, screaming, clashes of swords, 

I could not save myself. 

God was everywhere. 

I found myself in a boat,

where I stayed for 2 years, until, 

in recent weeks,

the call came to step out,

to start walking on water. 

Late in the day, 

I stood in the bathroom, 

accepting the most insulting job offer I have ever received,  

then sat on a stool,

 trying to act as if I was alive,

pretending to look for puzzle pieces,

slightly aware of the colors and shapes,

singing echoes of songs I used to love,

with my beautiful Robin,

who seemed very much alive. 

πŸ”₯

AL 

In Memoriam of my death, consumed by the flame, 

December 3, 2012 – 

may I be remembered as 

Daniel J O’Connell having the:

Spirit of a warrior

Soul of a poet


Irradiat your mind with the light from within, allow your existence to move along within the unbroken continuity of nature. The ideal of authenticity lies deep in the heart of one’s union to the world not the possession of it. The grandeur of unity holds a definitive place in the infinite. When you calibrate your spirit with that of the world you are left open to respond to your life harmoniously with the universe. Unmask your illusions from those artificial ideas you have build your lives upon with walls and boundaries solidifying your thoughts about a tragic disassociation to nature. It’s up to you to be open now or wait for the great unmasking…the choice is yours but unmasking now allows you to reconcile your existence while you still have the chance to live it.

    – Lissette T. Hesmadt


We have known and have believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and those who remain in love remain in God and God remains in them.  1 John β€ͺ4:16‬

No matter the results and outcomes,
     the thousand possibilities,

          you are here now. 
Why even try to trace

     what the beggar will do with your money?

          Let your giving be the whole horizon.
Be lovingly present

     and wars and stars and grief and cats alike

          will be unable to trouble you.
At the center of the world and in each breath

     this is the holy temple, the birthing moment:

          giving and receiving love. That is all. 
This is the sacred point,

     the love in you 

          meeting the love in the world.
However broken or weary you are,

     bring yourself here, in love, 

          now. 
__________________  

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

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

a toast!Β 


Presence is the leaven that makes earth rise. 

We knead this loaf by walking gently,

honoring ecstatic raspberries 

that tumble through the crippled zero 

of a junked tire,
peaches fallen into putrefying splendor,

lightning of naked twigs on Autumn sky,

hieroglyphs that signify how jaggedness 

resolves into awakened space. 
This isn’t just pretend, it’s how

Christ beholds the lilies…

Let that eye of kindness lead you

back to the vulva where your clan emerged,
womb-amber chaos all our dreams 

entangle in, the quintessential element 

of seeing, where we suck

the nipple of original otherness. 
After love making, some mother

must have swept our ashes up

in the wake of her heartbeat 
where we could smell the mulch

of opposites, the musk of the dead

in a bundle of throw-out hyacinths. 
We tasted rubies and moonlight,

the bitter yeast on golden grapes

un-gleaned at vineyards edge,

first fruits for homeless strangers,

those lovers of losing their way…
from the heat of the composted loss

the packed blackness of our sorrow

suddenly sprouts bejeweled graces. 
I’m still stumbling home from that

first fragrance, friend. 

You’re not as drunk as I am yet,

but you’ll get there, you’ll get there. 

🍷

Leaven by Alfred K. LaMotte



love warriors walk through this world

love dripping from open hands

falling onto shattered pieces of the broken 

staining bits of the kaleidoscope of hurting hearts

stepping carefully

yet confidently 

slowing down

pouring out what is so needed

brutally defending tenderness

as the ones who have forgotten to know

appear to do battle…

fearful, hardened, defense

not knowing what they have forgotten…

oh, dearest, please wake up,

please allow yourself to remember

we are all the light

we are each the beloved

please let me hold you

touch those wounded places

touch your face

breathe your soul into mine

until we are completely one

rub love on your sore spots

until you remember

what you already know

stay here with me 

for a long long while

let’s walk together

talk about all this beauty

connecting 

hands

hearts

love

ah yes

love

as we go forward 

allowing this drip to become 

a pour

a fountain 

a river

an ocean

the very universe

let’s dream together

as we sail our sea green ship

into this mystic world beyond the stars 

beyond the moon

and once again

find ourselves home in the sun

living this exquisite ecstasy

drunk on the love brew

only we

can create

together 

🍾

AL


The Love of the Soul wells up within my heart; and understanding, pity, love and self-forgetfulness arise. I carry love to all I meet. I meet men’s love with love and remember not myself.

——–

Discipleship in the New Age I

Alice A. Bailey

Page 176

The Tibetan D.K.


There is a community of the spirit.

Join it, and feel the delight

of walking in the noisy street

and being the noise.
Drink all your passion,

and be a disgrace.
Close both eyes

to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,

if you want to be held.
Sit down in this circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel

the shepherd’s love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.

Don’t accept consolations.
Close your mouth against food.

Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.
You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”

Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.

Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison

when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.

Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always

widening rings of being.

πŸ₯

A Community of the Spirit by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

commit to the process Β Β 


LIFE – the temptation is always to reduce it to size. A bowl of cherries. A rat race. Amino acids. Even to call it a mystery smacks of reductionism. It is the mystery.
As far as anybody seems to know, the vast majority of things in the universe do not have whatever life is. Sticks, stones, stars, space – they simply are. A few things are and are somehow alive to it. They have broken through into Someone, or Something has broken through into them. Even a jellyfish, a butternut squash. They’re in it with us. We’re all in it together, or it in us. Life is it. Life is with.
After lecturing learnedly on miracles, a great theologian was asked to give a specific example of one. “There is only one miracle,” he answered. “It is life.”
Have you wept at anything during the past year?
Has your heart beat faster at the sight of young beauty?
Have you thought seriously about the fact that someday you are going to die?
More often than not, do you really listen when people are speaking to you instead of just waiting for your turn to speak?
Is there anybody you know in whose place, if one of you had to suffer great pain, you would volunteer yourself?
If your answer to all or most of these questions is no, the chances are that you’re dead.

πŸ’ƒπŸ»

~ Frederick Buechner 

 originally published in Wishful Thinking and later in Beyond Words

maybe we should redefine the human body

this fleeting flash of existence

into something more manageable 

possibly use an oracle from a lost tongue

or something children can grab 

.

even the physical fact of your face

 stubble of rough beard 

its really an undiscovered haven of wilderness preserves

or some flashing blue temple of luminous fibers

.

you are a cloud capped tower 

the souls fiery predilection 

untamable fire 

 a great globe          

           a gorgeous palace 

melting into thin air

.

this coat of you

garment of flesh and blood

a miracle of armor protecting us from dust and plague

a kaleidoscope moving at the speed of light

 provoking an epiphany of star poems

.

law me down a border on the edge of this constellation 

so I can escape an ejected primordial comet of revolutionary escapades 

 before too long let us each and all reclaim human regeneration

and so welcome the clean space to become perfected art

.

you – 

 this blinding flash of condensed atoms 

breast arms and legs 

turmoil totally unmanageable 

welcome me into this new undefinable rouge ecstasy

like a galloping red bird of infinity  

before the dark void swallows me whole 

into a veritable contradiction of neo-forms

__________
Adam A. DeFranco

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1699576296948473/




I wonder if writing this poem
will spill you out of me
through my fingertips
will the ink become your blood 
this paper your skin
for me to touch 
again and again?

I wonder if stretching my hands to the sky,
while standing on my tiptoes
will release your wings
so you can fly free with me
into the starry sky
discovering all the worlds we have inside?

I wonder if I stand as tall, and as still, as a tree
you will come to me
climb up inside me
twist your arms and legs into my branches 
hold me close and never let me go?

I wonder if I sing you a love song
if I will become a part your soul
and you part of mine
both of us sewn within these chords
of mine and yours
absorbing each other 
into our very dna? 
Will we become each other? 
Forever becoming each other’s other?
mirrors of beauty
to dance inside the aleph
where heaven meets the earth? 

I want to know…

🌳

AL

read all about it


Especially in the afternoon when light slants

through the window, grazing her cheek on its way to the page.

For a woman who appreciates that kind of light for reading. 

Especially in mornings, when coffee makers groan. 

When everyone else is still climbing, still hand-over-handing their way

up from dreams. 

For the book

that fell into the bath

and was fished out β€” quickly. 

For the line

that swam before her as she fell

asleep. 

In stolen time: 

the check-out line, 

the way to work.

In fits and starts of traffic, 

in the press

of bodies. 

Especially

for anyone who’s ever missed her stop. 

For anyone who’s laughed out loud while reading

in a restaurant. 

Or ever thought of writing

to a stranger:

You told my story. 

How did you know?
Especially for a teenage girl whose touch

turns bookmarks into ash. 

And so she uses rubber bands, 

a roll of tape, 

a stray sock, 

a receipt, 

or my book

to hold her place open. 

Who won’t

come to supper till she finishes her page.

For a grandmother I know

about, who stirred with a book in one hand. 

For everyone stirring

with words in their hands. 

For anyone who’s ever grasped a book in two hands.

Hold your breath, and crack it open.

For books that have burned to be written. 

Books thrown into the fire

because supper wasn’t ready, or her chores had not been done.

For anyone who’s ever had anyone tell her:

All that reading makes you think too much.
 Especially when the leaves against the window

are a chorus from another time.

When evening comes, a woman stretches one curved arm to reach

the light behind her. 

She is reading while the birds take roost, and punctuate

the branches. 

Reading till her book is finished. 

Reading like a girl. 

πŸ“–

~Sue MacLeod


I didn’t intend to eat my 

Chocolatini Godiva Truffle 

until the very last. 

It was my shooting star. 

my most special to look forward to. 

my magic bullet. 

my favorite. 

Intented for the ending of the box celebration.  

saved

cherished

savored

but then I finished my book!  

I finished reading 

The Night Circus 

and my chocolatini was the closest thing

I could find to a chocolate mouse…

and so, I had to eat it! 

to celebrate!!!

What a cool book! 

Reading is my life,

books my passion, 

the smell of old libraries one of my favorites. 

Yet, I have not read a novel for a long time… 

have not found one that captured me in years…

until now. 

No hesitation with my truffle choice today,

it was the best show of respect

and gratitude I could give. 

The circus arrives without warning…

the circus of dreams…

and we are swept away by the very taste of it…

πŸ“š

AL

gifts appear Β 


I give you an emptiness,

I give you a plenitude,

unwrap them carefully. 

— one’s as fragile as the other —

and when you thank me

I’ll pretend not to notice the doubt in your voice

When you say they’re just what you wanted. 
Put them on the table by your bed. 

When you wake in the morning

they’ll have gone through the door of sleep

Into your head. Wherever you go

they’ll go with you and

wherever you are they’ll wonder,

smiling about the fullness 

you can’t add to 

and the emptiness

that you can’t fill.  
When you feel nothingness 

and emptiness gnawing at your life, 

there is no need for despair.

 This is a call from your soul, 

awakening your life to new possibilities. 

Nothingness is the sister of possibility. 

🎁

Presents by Norman MacCaig


knowing the way,
learning when to say yes –
when to walk away

how to tell the differences between, 
the people truly wanting to change themselves, thus the world, 

your helpers, 

the light-walkers, 

from the ones with underlying, unsavory, motivations
– discernment,

intuition –

we use them everyday
or we get ourselves into
hot,
sticky,
uncomfortable 
situations…
where we hone our skills
by finally struggling,

 like a fly in the spider web,

finally extricating ourselves 

as we learn our newest lessons

the, God awful,
hard way
🎁

AL



rebel souldance & mystic moonshineΒ 


I go to sleep

&

I wake up this morning, 

thinking…

of conversation 

of love

of friendship

of anam cara

of music

of poetry

of art

of creating

of beauty

of kindness

of truth

of life

of writing

of pens

of ink

of gratitude 

of allowing 

of hoping

of partnership

of relationship

of rEVOLution 

of all things new

of souls and time

of forces of nature

of beauty and all she is

of magical moments 

of miracle days

of the real meaning of home

πŸ’ž

AL


why should I worry or fret?


Rest is the conversation between what we love to do and how we love to be. Rest is the essence of giving and receiving; an act of remembering, imaginatively and intellectually but also physiologically and physically. To rest is to give up on the already exhausted will as the prime motivator of endeavor, with its endless outward need to reward itself through established goals. To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we are there to put it right; to rest is to fall back literally or figuratively from outer targets and shift the goal not to an inner static bull’s eye, an imagined state of perfect stillness, but to an inner state of natural exchange.
The template of natural exchange is the breath, the autonomic giving and receiving that forms the basis and the measure of life itself. We are rested when we are a living exchange between what lies inside and what lies outside, when we are an intriguing conversation between the potential that lies in our imagination and the possibilities for making that internal image real in the world; we are rested when we let things alone and let ourselves alone, to do what we do best, breathe as the body intended us to breathe, to walk as we were meant to walk, to live with the rhythm of a house and a home, giving and taking through cooking and cleaning. 
When we give and take in an easy foundational way we are closest to the authentic self, and closest to that self when we are most rested. To rest is not self indulgent, to rest is to prepare to give the best of ourselves, and to perhaps, most importantly, arrive at a place where we are able to understand what we have already been given.
In the first state of rest is the sense of stopping, of giving up on what we have been doing or how we have been being. In the second, is the sense of slowly coming home, the physical journey into the body’s un-coerced and un-bullied self, as if trying to remember the way or even the destination itself. In the third state is a sense of healing and self-forgiveness and of arrival. In the fourth state, deep in the primal exchange of the breath, is the give and the take, the blessing and the being blessed and the ability to delight in both. The fifth stage is a sense of absolute readiness and presence, a delight in and an anticipation of the world and all its forms; a sense of being the meeting itself between inner and outer, and that receiving and responding occur in one spontaneous movement.
A deep experience of rest is the template of perfection in the human imagination, a perspective from which we are able to perceive the outer specific forms of our work and our relationships whilst being nourished by the shared foundational gift of the breath itself. From this perspective we can be rested while putting together an elaborate meal for an arriving crowd, whilst climbing the highest mountain or sitting at home surrounded by the chaos of a loving family.
Rested, we are ready for the world but not held hostage by it, rested we care again for the right things and the right people in the right way. In rest we reestablish the goals that make us more generous, more courageous, more of an invitation, someone we want to remember, and someone others would want to remember too.


REST By David Whyte

there are words strung together

in such beauty

lined up in perfect sequence

finally arranged in such a way

they touch secret places

of pain so hidden inside us

they have had no way of expression 

they almost don’t exist

they are so deep

so shadowy scarred and twisted

so nameless I can’t acknowledge them

because they might possibly be a ghost

and why would I disturb alien creatures,

when there is quite enough pain

right here in plain sight

to try to heal and deal with?
until these thoughts appear,

the magical key,

and shadows become real,

in these words of another – 

because the other 

has felt 

has written

has sung

has wrestled and wrangled with…

this too!

and the words they have mined 

from these dark, broken quarries 

touch that wispy, pain-filled place

inside of me

with delicate fingers

and declare they are so,

and, somehow,

they make them alright,

binding and healing

my shame-filled broken bones

my secret stab wounds 

my almost too pain-full to be real

merely by sharing them out loud!

Suddenly, my soul says, aha!

And I breathe again, 

and I lay down to rest. 

Then roses in my heart

turn from blush to deepest crimson

and birds come and build nests in the trees,

which declare every moment that

Yahweh is always gracious,

and the morning wakes up

new and alive. 

Then love burns seven times hotter 

than I ever even thought possible

and I count gift after gift

of never-before-seen riches at my fingertips

as I step into a life 

that matters

because I am beloved

because I understand myself better

and the meaning of,

It is what it is

and

the truth shall set you free

become my praise songs

because I AM

with every word

and I grin and say,

‘You aren’t much, my girl’

and I belly laugh…

because it is true!

and then I laugh even harder because,

truth is also,

I AM everything I need to be! 

oh, hallelujah 

glory be!

🌞

AL

what am I missing?Β 

The speaker points out 

that we don’t really have

much of a grasp of things, 

not only the big things,

the important questions, 

but the small everyday

things. 

“How many steps up to your back yard? 

What is the name of your district representative? 

What did you have for breakfast? 

What is your wife’s shoe size? 

Can you tell me the color of your sweetheart’s eyes? 

Do you remember where you parked the car?” 

The evidence is overwhelming.

Most of us never truly experience life. 

“We drift through life in daydream, 

missing the true richness and joy that life has to offer.” 

When the speaker has finished we gather around to sing a few inspirational songs. 

You and I stand at the back of the group and hum along 

since we have forgotten most of the words.

😜
The Speaker by Louis Jenkins


Mary Oliver reminds me

to let go of any need that might linger in me

to, even try, to impress anyone. 

But to stay alert to the extravagant impressiveness around me, 

puddling at my feet,

drowning my life with goodness. 

To be easily astonished,

easily filled with wonder,

to let life boggle my mind.

To stay a child of joy and nature,

a collector of miracles. 

To stay in awe of sunsets

and dandelions,

coffee shops

and grasshoppers.

To gasp every time I get a view of the ocean,

to be breathless at the view from a mountaintop road at sunset. 

To feel wonder when I see a leaf change color.

To crane my neck, every single time, to catch a glimpse of sunlight on water,

to thrill everytime I touch the curve of a babies cheek. 

To get a chill of macabre delight

at gnarly, old toenails,

and bats hanging upside down

in a dark damp cave,

or flying around a street light as darkness falls slowly through the air. 

Such things keep me alive. 

These are the true riches of our living. 

Extreme miracles everywhere around us. 

We are here to witness, 

here to share descriptions of such beauty, 

even our feeble attempts are so amazing

they boggle the mind. 

Thank you, Mary Oliver, for this reminder, 

with your every beautiful, glorious word. 

We are each here to do our part,

to record our miracles

in our own voices, 

pens,

paints,

dances,

lyrics,

artistry,

we make up this tapestry,

we record the blazing glory,

the divine masterpiece. 

We each add notes to the grand symphony,

allowing the rocks to stay silent – 

at least for those who

don’t care to listen for the exquisite, out-of-this-world music they share – 

we play on through each day 

with such brilliance, light and passion,

savoring delight, 

everywhere we go…

until we are gone, 

and those who come behind us

find it all fresh and new once more,

and begin to tell their part of the story, 

in their own beautiful, unique ways. 

πŸ’ž

AL 

pray & remember


I pray today for those who have suffered and sacrificed

in service to their country.

I honor the sacrifice of soldiers and sailors who have died,

and for their loved ones, who still suffer.

I pray for those who are injured,

especially those poorly cared for.

I pray for those whose who are injured in heart or mind or soul.

I pray for those whose spirits died

when they were forced to witness or commit horrible things,

whose souls have been hollowed out,

or whose purpose has been shattered.

I pray for homeless veterans,

for addicts and suicides and vets haunted by PTSD,

for they too are casualties of our way of war.

I pray for those who are sexually abused and harassed,

whose suffering continues after their time of duty.

I pray for those who have served who are lonely,

who are sad, who are guilty or ashamed.

I pray for those who are proud but unappreciated.

I pray for healing for all those who bear the wounds

we choose others to suffer and to inflict. 

And I pray for those of other nations, too.

God bless all who have suffered and sacrificed:

may they know healing, grace, and deep peace. 
Amen.

__________________ 
Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net


graphic found at http://www.pinterest.com

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