life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “Thoughts”

I am a poet

  It has taken a while to embrace the poet.

The desire having been born much later in life,
to write poetry,
to bring to life, with words,
what I see, feel, moments of sanguinity.

I have never doubted the words I have written
because they were written in truth, my truth.
But I did doubt the title.
Poet.
What? These lines? Poetry?

There was too much significance behind the title.
A poet.
Wordsworth, Shelley, Dickinson, Frost, Walt Whitman…
Oh my. The idea left me breathless.
What was I playing at?

But then, the answer was blindingly simple.
Take away the significance.

Aren’t poems moments of grace, of revelation?

Humming to a birdsong,
delighting at the sight of valleys and mountains,
closing our eyes in ecstasy at the sweetness of a fruit
or the texture of bark under our fingertips…
Aren’t these the poetic murmurings of one’s heart?

While some of us choose to put it all on paper,
others choose to carry it all within their hearts.
Well then, underneath the cloak of conventionality,
aren’t we all poetic?
Aren’t we all poets?

πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€

I am a poet by Rama Desai

https://ramaink.wordpress.com/author/ramaink/
πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€πŸ‘€

 

   

  Listen to Lake Street Dive sing We Love All the Same Songs http://youtu.be/9sNbyjfgccc
photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/513

hummingΒ 

 
  

One old man keeps humming the same few notes
of some song he thought he had forgotten
back in the days when as he knows there was
no word for life in the language 
and if they wanted to say eyes or heart
they would hold up a leaf and he remembers
the big tree where it rose from the dry ground
and the way the birds carried water in their voices
they were all the color of their fear of the dark
and as he sits there humming he remembers
some of the words they come back to him now
he smiles hearing them come and go

🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢

Parts of a Tune by W. S. Merwin

🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢🎢

Just lying on the couch and being happy. 
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.

People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can’t

monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven

left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People wont even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

Later in the day you can act like the others.

You can shake your head. You can frown.

Any Morning by William Stafford

 
    

 Listen to James Taylor sing You’ve Got A Friend http://youtu.be/xEkIou3WFnM

Quote/photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513

Can Broken Wings Fly?

 


Broken wings can fly?

Who will mend them/who will rend them?

Who will tend them/who will send them?

 

I have been on the road less traveled

And seen life and death unraveled

Torn and broken down;

And voices filled with gravel!

 

I have been in nothing more

And seen rapacious roar

And heard the unknown sound

Speaking loudly,

From the ground!

 

And through my eyes, through the hue

Ebbing ever from greed to blue

Sometimes blinded by the light

Rarely knowing what is right

I travel through the maze

And broken through the haze

 

But my heart has never broken!

It beats with never ending light

And I know not where it leads me,

But I know it leads to you!

In sky or in the sea,

Always spoken if not seen

Or seen if not spoken;

 

The vision never broken!

πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»πŸ‘πŸ»

by Matthew Mele

 

 

 

 

 

listen to Paul McCartney sing Blackbird http://youtu.be/8ehhZ53zysQ

Photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513 

 

 

  

love letters

 As I gaze into the world, I realise

that nothing falters in its
ability to reflect what
I’ve come here to see.

 

My challenge remains
to admit
to what it is
that I’ve seen.
πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“πŸ‘“
The Reflection by Nic Askew

 It is time to write.

To blog.

To truthtell.

To confess, expose, reveal…

be real and raw and silly-serious moment by moment me.

Here. Now.      -vs-.       Someday. When.

Someday when I know what I’m doing?

Have it figured out?

Plotted, schemed, planned, blueprinted, outlined?

READY.

Ptttthhhhh! You know THAT day, right?

I am a beautiful messy mess heap of chaos and presence

Wanna know something?

My insides are scribbling.

I am scared. Scared of being scared. Scared of being scared of being scared.

Yesterday I shared with friends that I do not comprehend why I get

So. damn. frozen. stuck. stymied. in my lack of tracks

when.ever. I. contemplate coming here                                                                                                 (yes, here, to a wordpress screen, fingers on keys)                                                                               and writing any.thing.at. all.

(as clearly evidenced by the chronic non-posts pervading this site, right?)

And I think I must find out what is β€œwrong” and-or β€œwhy oh why”                                                             in order to overcome and be                                                                                                                 the golden-hued, prolific, profound, insightful, inspirational blogging goddess                                       that we all know is in here                                                                                                       somewhere.

(Ohhhhhhhh…. could that be why?!)

They told me to just write. Write me. For me.

Not for you. Or them. Or any grand scheme purpose.

Simply to write. Express. Allow words to come. Flow.                                                                     Have their inexplicable way with me.

So here I am.

Shaking. Criticizing. Condemning. Regretting.                                                                          ALLOWING. Receiving.                                                                                                                     Sharing.                                                                                                                                             (Insert loud screechy horror movie scream here)

Writing words from voices whispering, hollering, quivering and shimmering

Fastwriting over, under, beside and through the scribbley scary insides

Less pretend pretense.

More real raw-been Robin.

I am a writer, after all.

I am also a Leader of Laughter and Guider of Dreams and Creativity Coach.                                       And that scribble and scrape-slops my insides, too.

I just want to hide. Run away. Hibernate. Meditate. Extrapolate.

You have no idea (wait, but maybe you do?)                                                                                         just how much energy I spend resisting

what I’m meant to do.

Fighting, warring, tugging, slugging, ugamugging.

It is ongoing, this internal bickering with all the voices

vying to be heeded and heard,

whining, cajoling, singing, snorting

All these damn voices, yearning.

I am hushing you (shhhhhh now, it’s ok)

setting you free

be unleashed upon a page, a stage,

keep me real, release release

have your way with me.

It is time to write. 

πŸ’ŒπŸ’ŒπŸ’ŒπŸ’ŒπŸ’ŒπŸ’ŒπŸ’Œ

      – Robin OK @ http://laughndream.com/2015/03/truthscribbles/

 

photos and sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513 

it’s all about the heart

Its incredible how one’s needs can be so contrary from one moment to the next.

Or maybe vociferousness is not for me.

The day was warm and the park beckoned. I reached for the camera but then left it behind.

There was a need for silence. I did not want to capture an outward display of appreciation. Instead, I took it inward. I wanted it to implode within and drown me in its presence. To let it pool in the center of my being and then let it burgeon with the stillness of the woods. Tender, quiet, restful. A balm, a solace, a gathering of the wayward sinews of breath and then, a releasing.

An unraveling, a crumbling of the walls of the fortress. And then, a gentle rebuilding.

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌲

The Fortress of One’s Heart by Rama DesaiΒ https://ramaink.wordpress.com

Β 

photo sources atΒ www.pinterest.com/al513

tell it


 

 

 

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Photo sources at www.pinterest.com/al513

dreaming

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If I could lift that corner of sunlight that slants
that cuts a dashing swath of burnt yellow across the room,
I would swirl it around without a care and toss it
across my shoulders and breathe in its warmth,
its musty breathe redolent with time without end.

I would huddle within its glorious arms, sinews melting,

and dream of fields under a summer sky.

Rama Desai
https://ramaink.wordpress.com

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Gayatri Prayer

You who are the source of all power,
Whose rays illuminate the world,
Illuminate also my heart
So that it too can do Your work.
πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™
While reciting this prayer, visualize the sun’s rays streaming forth into the world, entering your heart, then streaming from your heart’s center back into the world.
πŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’žπŸ’ž

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source photo trackbacks found at

find your wonder

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The moon, half dressed,
slips out of bed with me.
Earth holds me in her palm,
each step, carries me out of the house.
First light leans easy against the trees,
lays an arm around my shoulders
and walks with me.
The air, the breath of the world,
cold and hard but willing,
wants to plunge deep into me,
and plunges. The morning,
wearing nothing but the universe,
opens her robe and wraps it around me.
The creator of all things,
the world gathered in her hands,
looks at this day and smiles
and leans a little bit forward
and says, β€œLet’s do this.”
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
http://www.unfoldinglight.net

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There are no words for the deepest things. Words become feeble when mystery visits and prayer moves into silence. In post-modern culture the ceaseless din of chatter has killed our acquaintance with silence. Consequently, we are stressed and anxious. Silence is a fascinating presence. Silence is shy; it is patient and never draws attention to itself. Without the presence of silence, no word could ever be said or heard. Our thoughts constantly call up new words. We become so taken with words that we barely notice the silence, but the silence is always there. The best words are born in the fecund silence that minds the mystery.

…When the raft of prayer leaves the noisy streams of words and thoughts, it enters the still lake of silence. At this point, you become aware of the tranquility that lives within you. Beneath your actions, gestures, and thoughts, there is a silent tranquility.

When you pray, you visit the kind innocence of your soul. This is a pure place of unity which the noise of life can never disturb. You enter the secret temple of your deepest belonging. Only in this temple can your hungriest longing find stillness and peace. This is summed up in that lovely line from the Bible β€œBe still and know that I am God.” In stillness, the silence of the divine becomes intimate.

…When we pray, we pray to that space in the Divine Presence which absolutely knows us. This could be what is suggested in the New Testament when it says of our return to the invisible world: β€œOn that day you will know as you are known.”

– John O’Donohue, Eternal Echoes (p. 206-207)

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no apologies

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I am done with apologies. If contrariness is my
inheritance and destiny, so be it. If it is my mission
to go in at exits and come out at entrances, so be it.
I have planted by the stars in defiance of the experts,
and tilled somewhat by incantation and by singing,
and reaped, as I knew, by luck and Heaven’s favor,
in spite of the best advice. If I have been caught
so often laughing at funerals, that was because
I knew the dead were already slipping away,
preparing a comeback, and can I help it?
And if at weddings I have gritted and gnashed
my teeth, it was because I knew where the bridegroom
had sunk his manhood, and knew it would not
be resurrected by a piece of cake. β€˜Dance,’ they told me,
and I stood still, and while they stood
quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.
β€˜Pray,’ they said, and I laughed, covering myself
in the earth’s brightnesses, and then stole off gray
into the midst of a revel, and prayed like an orphan.
When they said, β€˜I know my Redeemer liveth,’
I told them, β€˜He’s dead.’ And when they told me
β€˜God is dead,’ I answered, β€˜He goes fishing ever day
in the Kentucky River. I see Him often.’
When they asked me would I like to contribute
I said no, and when they had collected
more than they needed, I gave them as much as I had.
When they asked me to join them I wouldn’t,
and then went off by myself and did more
than they would have asked. β€˜Well, then,’ they said
β€˜go and organize the International Brotherhood
of Contraries,’ and I said, β€˜Did you finish killing
everybody who was against peace?’ So be it.
Going against men, I have heard at times a deep harmony
thrumming in the mixture, and when they ask me what
I say I don’t know. It is not the only or the easiest
way to come to the truth. It is one way.

Β© Wendell Berry. This poem is excerpted

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holiness vs perfection

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FINDING THE HOLY IN THE HOLIDAYS:

Holiness is the center that holds all peripheries; the ground beneath feet running to look for gifts, the held note of a song that leaves a listener silent in the busiest most glittering street. Holiness is a simultaneous form of invitation and gathering and a radical letting alone, of family, of food, of perspectives, the holy is reached through letting go, by giving up on perfection. Holiness is the rehabilitation of the discarded; the uncelebrated and the imperfect, into new unities, perceived again as gift. Holiness is the bringing of the outside into the inside, from where the inside can give again, transformed as if by its simple act of breathing in and breathing out, back into the world.

Holiness is memory independent of time, welling from the unspoken that holds together all words said at the busy surface; holiness marries hurry to rest, stress to spaciousness, and joy to heartbreak in our difficult attempt to give and receive and as a culmination can dissolve giver and receiver into one conversation, untouched by the hurry of the hours.

Holiness is not in Bethlehem, nor Jerusalem, nor the largest, most glittering, mall, unless we are there in good company, with a friend, with a loved one, with our affections, with our best and most generous thoughts, with a deep form of inhabited silence, or in a grounded central conversation with what and how we like to give. Holiness is coming to ground in the essence of our giving and receiving, a mirror in which we can see both our virtues and our difficulties, but also, a doorway to the life we want beyond this particular form of exchange.

Holiness is beautiful beckoning uncertainty: time celebrated and time already gone so quickly. Holiness dissolves the prison of time and lies only one short step from the present busy moment: just one look into the starry darkness of the mid-winter sky at the midnight hour, just one glance at a daughter’s face; just one sight of a distressed friend alone in the midst of a crowded celebration. Holiness is a step taken not to the left or to the right, but straight through present besieging outer circumstances, to the core of the pattern we inhabit at the very center of the celebration. Holiness is reached not through effort or will, but by stopping; by an inward coming to rest; a place from which we can embody the spirit of all our holy days, a radical, inhabited simplicity, where we live in a kind of on going surprise and with some wonder and appreciation, far from perfection, but inhabiting the very center of a beautiful, peripheral giftedness.

Finding the Holy in the Holidays
Β© David Whyte

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I sat in the library
With the small silent tree,
She and I alone.
How softly she shone!

And for the first time then
For the first time this year,
I felt reborn again,
I knew love’s presence near.

Love distant, love detached
And strangely without weight,
Was with me in the night
When everyone had gone
And the garland of pure light
Stayed on, stayed on

Christmas Light by May Sarton

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watercolor by Mary Lou Peters

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