life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “Poetry”

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

watch & pray

 

HIDING is a way of staying alive. Hiding is a way of holding ourselves until we are ready to come into the light. Even hiding the truth from ourselves can be a way to come to what we need in our own necessary time. Hiding is one of the brilliant and virtuoso practices of almost every part of the natural world: the protective quiet of an icy northern landscape, the held bud of a future summer rose, the snow bound internal pulse of the hibernating bear.
Hiding is underestimated. We are hidden by life in our mother’s womb until we grow and ready ourselves for our first appearance in the lighted world; to appear too early in that world is to find ourselves with the immediate necessity for outside intensive care.
Hiding done properly is the internal faithful promise for a proper future emergence, as embryos, as children or even as emerging adults in retreat from the names that have caught us and imprisoned us, often in ways where we have been too easily seen and too easily named.
We live in a time of the dissected soul, the immediate disclosure; our thoughts, imaginings and longings exposed to the light too much, too early and too often, our best qualities squeezed too soon into a world already awash with too easily articulated ideas that oppress our sense of self and our sense of others. What is real is almost always to begin with, hidden, and does not want to be understood by the part of our mind that mistakenly thinks it knows what is happening. What is precious inside us does not care to be known by the mind in ways that diminish its presence.

Hiding is an act of freedom from the misunderstanding of others, especially in the enclosing world of oppressive secret government and private entities, attempting to name us, to anticipate us, to leave us with no place to hide and grow in ways unmanaged by a creeping necessity for absolute naming, absolute tracking and absolute control. Hiding is a bid for independence, from others, from mistaken ideas we have about our selves, from an oppressive and mistaken wish to keep us completely safe, completely ministered to, and therefore completely managed.
Hiding is creative, necessary and beautifully subversive of outside interference and control. Hiding leaves life to itself, to become more of itself. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into the light of a proper human future.

☺️💞☺️
HIDING by David Whyte

   
All the things hidden in my heart

Like Mary, the mother,

Watching and observing Jesus. 

Being the witness of the unseen miracles 

The keeper of all I have seen. 

My faith is real,

because I have experienced great acts of God,

faithfulness

on the inside, and outside, of my life,

In the daily progression of my journey.  

You can’t take any of it away from me. 

I know what I have seen.

This is not my daddy’s faith

This is not my momma’s relationship. 

This is all mine. 

Intimacy 

Walking together. 

Miracles. 

Clouds and colors, 

falling stars and pillars of fire,

pointing the way. 

Falling in love. 

Commitment. 

Yes, the words of Jesus changed my life,

When I began to live them daily. 

When I stepped into the great unknown. 

Became an observer of my own soul. 

Became open to the door of the unknown. 

Became comfortable with being uncomfortable. 

Fell in passionate love with grace. 

Walked through the unlocked door into freedom 

All the hidden things will be revealed

All the hidden things will be proclaimed

All the hidden things will be shouted from the rooftops. 

All the hidden things will be joyfully sung at the top of my lungs. 

All the hidden things will remain hidden no more. 

💖

AL

    

words become words

 
If you believe in the magic of language,
then Elvis really Lives
and Princess Diana foretold I end as car spin.

If you believe the letters themselves
contain a power within them,
then you understand
what makes outside tedious,
how desperation becomes a rope ends it.

The circular logic that allows senator to become treason,
and treason to become atoners.

That eleven plus two is twelve plus one,
and an admirer is also married.

That if you could just rearrange things the right way
you’d find your true life,
the right path, the answer to your questions:
you’d understand how the Titanic
turns into that ice tin,
and debit card becomes bad credit.

How listen is the same as silent,
and not one letter separates stained from sainted.

🐝

Anagrammer by Peter Pereira

  
GOB 2728

go be 

Two’s Heaven 

Two Wait

  

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

  
  
  

reborned

 

The days are cold and brown,

Brown fields,  no sign of green,
Brown twigs,  not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.
But as the dark flows in

The tree frogs begin

Their shrill sweet singing,

And we lie on our beds

Through the ecstatic night,

Wide awake,  cracked open. 

There will be no going back.

April in Maine by May Sarton

 

 Though I know better
the trees look dead.

Here and there a little prison 

of ice is forgiven.

Little green hands reach up through leafmold

and I can’t let go.

A door opens inside me
I didn’t know was there.

________________________

Weather Report
Possibility,

which only recently 

seems to have become possible

though it has been riding upper currents

from the other side of the world.

A clear front develops

as everything emerges from within.

Expect variable conditions,

and completely predictable

intermittent surprises.
__________________  

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

  
 It seems we have made pain 

some kind of mistake, 

like having it 

is somehow wrong. 
Don’t let them fool you— 

pain is a part of things. 
But remember, dear Ellie, 

the compost down in the field: 

if the rank and dank and dark 

are handled well, not merely discarded, 

but turned and known and honored, 

they one day come to beds of rich earth 

home even to the most delicate rose. 

🌹

selected from A Poem for My Daughter by Teddy Macker

 

 I am ready
when a voice has spoken,

a path opened its arms,

ready to resolve and to follow.

And if not I am ready to be still,

and more still yet, 

to wait,

to shed my wants and fears,

my wishes and words, and even 

the words I have for the silence

and for you, 

until not I but you speak

and I follow.

And when I have resolved,

and I am sure of myself, 

and my wishes reappear 

in the costume of devotion,

help me to return 

to be still and listen again.

Another Eve. Another Day. 

I yield to you fully,

and ask you only 

to help me to return

and to return

and to return,

to be still and ready

each day. 

__________________ 

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

blinders off

 

 IN A FAR OFF CORNER

In a far off corner of a wide wide world

lies the circumstance that faces another.
A circumstance so abject that life

never really begins. And then it

dies quietly, announced by

an unheard whisper.
And from our corner of this world,

safe and secure under bejeweled roofs,

we pay our cursory glance of sympathy.
We forget that all corners connect, and

that the experience of each life lives

within us all. Albeit in disguise.
And we miss the possibility hidden

in the circumstance of another.
The possibility that compassion might soften

the edges of our own uneven experience,

and that the simple act of togetherness

might liberate our disheartened lives.
There are no far off corners

in this wide wide world.
And there are no separate lives.

💔
Nic Askew 

Home

  

I ride Greyhound

because it’s like being
in a John Steinbeck novel.
Next best thing is the laundromat.
That’s where all people
who would be on the bus if they had the money
hang out. This is my crowd.
Tonight there are cleaning people appalled
at the stupidity of anyone
who would put powder detergent
into the clearly marked LIQUID ONLY slot.
The couple by the vending machine
are fondling each other.
You’d think the orange walls
and fluorescent lights
would dampen that energy
but it doesn’t seem to.
It’s a singles scene here on Saturday nights.
I confide to the fellow next to me
that I suspect I am being taken
in by the triple loader,
maybe it doesn’t hold any more
than the regular machines
but I’m paying an extra fifty cents.
I tell him this meaningfully
holding handfuls of underwear.
He claims the triple loader
gives a better wash.
I don’t ask why,
just cruise over to the pop machine,
aware that my selection
may provide a subtle clue.
I choose Wild Berry,
head back to my clothes.

🌎

I Ride Greyhound by Ellie Schoenfeld 

  
I spot one. 

a coin laudro-mat

I feel blessed to be able to wash my clothes. 

towels and unmentionables. 

a small bag. 

I walk into the familiar,

yet for a while now, 

Blessedly Unfamiliar. 

I remember the years of this in my life

my most missed luxury in all of life

was washing and drying clothes

at home. 

So hard this part of life became. 

So challenging and humbling. 

$4.50 to wash 

a quarter for 5 minutes to dry. 

I struggle to adjust. 

I hadn’t planned on this. 

I don’t look the part today. 

I have to ask questions to reacquaint myself with this system. 

Here in the midst of 

hard working-and-living men, 

tired mothers and crying babies,

the immigrants and struggling,

These to whom I belong. 

those who make their living 

through making clean the dirty.
I stand and watch the circle go round 

Hot tears stinging my eyes

I remember. 

Those days. 

Those tough-as-nails days. 

Plunged from luxury to poverty

in a heartbeat-break of life. 

So soon we forget…

So quickly we remember…

I watch the water rise – 

  I didn’t put in enough soap. 

      There are no suds. 

I pray that hot water I chose 

for those 2 extra, hard-earned quarters,

 will do it’s work

and my clothes will smell good. 

I will not prolong my stay –

or use more of my precious coins. 
I pray each of our guardian-laundry angels 

will bless each of us

doing laundry every day 

in all types of conditions. 

This would be pure luxury in parts of this world. 

I pray for grace. 

I pray to remember. 

I pray to be grace. 

I pray to be The Words of God to heal the broken. 

I pray for grace. 

I pray for the crying baby,

and the tired man,

whose current outfit could use a good washing itself. 

I pray for the immigrant family,

quietly folding together,

speaking Spanish in hushed voices. 

I pray for the fabulous girl at the dryers,

with the faux Burberry scarf flung jauntily over her shoulder,

I hope to carry myself with such flair and dignity. 

We are all here –

Bearing the high cost,

and inconvenience,

of poverty in our society. 
I pray as quiet tears run. 

I stand in my washer’s corner hoping nobody sees my memories. 

I blow my over-productive nose. 

and give thanks for all things. 

Especially that I have known these struggles.

That I know how this feels. 

That I am part of this humanity. 

Not separate 

I am one with all God’s created people. 

All seeking clean clothes,

washing machines

and hope. 
The crying baby starts to laugh

I smile as well. 

God is always good

I am always blessed – 

If I am willing to see the blessings –

even if it takes years and years to see them.

🔘

AL

  

become the poem

 

1.
Have you ever been in the middle of things, not knowing which way to go? Do I move forward, do I turn back. Do I go left, do I go right. I oscillate between this choice and the other, turning and turning in place, which in itself is a decision, isn’t it.
2.

When I encounter turns in a poem, I feel the most delicious thrill. This is not a failure, this is a discovery. I have arrived at the centre, and now we are going to turn. Do we move forward, do we turn back. Do we go left, do we go right. Do we delve in between the lines in search for the truth, and is it a truth that will matter?
3.

The poem turns, and I’m either moved or not moved. Most of the time, moved. Most of the time, moved spectacularly, which finds me on my knees supplicating, more of this, yes, more of this.
4.

Day by day again, I arrive at the turning point. Do I get up or not get up. Do I live or not live. Do I let the body love what it loves, do I let the mind pay attention, do I lift my face from my hands, do I try being human for at least one more day?
5.

The poem and the world turns, both.

🌎

by T

https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2016/03/18/i-sink-back-upon-the-ground-by-david-ignatow/

  

God, lead me.

Your love is my morning star—awaken me;

my north star— lead me from what enslaves me.

I navigate by the star of your love.

I set myself for the long journey.
Give me courage to be led,

wisdom to let you lead me,

to follow and not stray, not turn back,

not go my own way.

Oh, pure star, save me from my own way.
I name those times I followed my own way…

and those times I followed your love…
May I see your star in my sky

and set my face toward it always.

Set my compass, God, 

and keep me from straying.

I let go of my need to know the way,

my pride that I do,

my fear that I don’t.

You lead me, and I trust, give thanks and follow.
In stillness I listen for your whisper,

I feel for your nudging,

I give myself

to follow. 

Love, lead me. 

__________________ 

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

  
I could write a book on that…
I’ll write a poem instead
I’ll condense the whole story
into a few lines
a word 
or two
and 
there you have it

my full story

best version 

🌎
AL

  

Hello + Welcome!

I see a light 

  
Please,

give me some inspiration 

away from the lights of retail obsession 

after that quick thrill is gone

the empty thrill of addiction’s lie

what is left but emptiness?

Inspire me with true beauty

kindness

truth

the deep satisfaction of truth

replace the illusion of neon lights

plastic glamour 

with the glory of what is real

to see my true self

the weighty value of love 

the only water to quench the thirsty soul

the only inspiration which keeps us seeking more

while being full 

at the same time

💞

AL

 

  Purchase amazing Stripy Arms inspiring art @

Home

❤️

 Find the good. 
   It is all around you. 

      Find it, showcase it…. 

-Jesse Owens  

distilled beauty 

 

 I could write a book on that…
I’ll write a poem instead

I’ll condense the whole story

into a few lines

a word 

or two

and 

there you have it. 

The End. 

📚

AL

   
    
    
 
  
find sources for blackout poems and quotes @ http://www.pinterest.com (search/blackout poetry)

conservation: only you can set your soul on fire  

   

If you have one hour of air

And many hours to go,

You must breathe slowly.

If you have one arm’s length

and many things to care for,

You must give freely. 

If you have one chance to know God

And many doubts, you must

Set your heart on fire.

We are blessed.

Each day is a chance.

We have two arms.

Fear wastes air.

🔥

Freefall by Mark Nepo

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

Post Navigation