life: acoustic & amplified

deal me in

i have forgotten how to write a beautiful sentence

i walk through days of dangling participles

jangling questionnaires fall from my lips

black lace Freudian slips slipping past my fingertips

i adjust my spectacles to see things a new way

always remember

poetry comes in multiple formulations

from well dusted surfaces

to a handmade journal to carry me safely through another inspired year

to put it Bluntly,

i’ll take some Sun on Sunday, please and thank you

grey skies never looked on so handsomely

just because I didn’t write it down

doesn’t mean the poem don’t exist

just because I took a new job

doesn’t mean I won’t sing to you

just because I didn’t call today

doesn’t mean I don’t love you

just because you make me laugh

doesn’t mean I do…

see you on the flip side

i’m too old to die young

but I’ll still be beautiful

no matter the weather

i’ll still think about you

when the dealin’s done

💋

Amy Lloyd

how do you eat a pink elephant?

ELEPHANT AND THE BLIND MEN

Once upon a time, there lived six blind men in a village. One day the villagers told them, “Hey, there is an elephant in the village today.”

They had no idea what an elephant is. They decided, “Even though we would not be able to see it, let us go and feel it anyway.” All of them went where the elephant was. Everyone of them touched the elephant.

“Hey, the elephant is a pillar,” said the first man who touched his leg.

“Oh, no! it is like a rope,” said the second man who touched the tail.

“Oh, no! it is like a thick branch of a tree,” said the third man who touched the trunk of the elephant.

“It is like a big hand fan” said the fourth man who touched the ear of the elephant.

“It is like a huge wall,” said the fifth man who touched the belly of the elephant.

“It is like a solid pipe,” Said the sixth man who touched the tusk of the elephant.

They began to argue about the elephant and everyone of them insisted that he was right. It looked like they were getting agitated. A wise man was passing by and he saw this. He stopped and asked them, “What is the matter?” They said, “We cannot agree to what the elephant is like.” Each one of them told what he thought the elephant was like. The wise man calmly explained to them, “All of you are right. The reason every one of you is telling it differently because each one of you touched the different part of the elephant. So, actually the elephant has all those features what you all said.”

“Oh!” everyone said. There was no more fight. They felt happy that they were all right.

The moral of the story is that there may be some truth to what someone says. Sometimes we can see that truth and sometimes not because they may have different perspective which we may not agree too. So, rather than arguing like the blind men, we should say, “Maybe you have your reasons.” This way we don’t get in arguments. In Jainism, it is explained that truth can be stated in seven different ways. So, you can see how broad our religion is. It teaches us to be tolerant towards others for their viewpoints. This allows us to live in harmony with the people of different thinking. This is known as the Syadvada, Anekantvad, or the theory of Manifold Predictions.

movement

The piano,

not played,

is still a piano –

patiently waiting

the music quiet

yet still inside

ready to thrill

not going anywhere else

not making itself heard

not anxious

or demanding

prepared to release itself

all it takes is the right hand

to touch the keys

for the waiting heart to fall in love

as the strings warm with movement

as the song begins

the singer is moved to sing along

as the instrument springs to life

and the future is forever changed through this mysterious portal

🎹

Amy Lloyd

You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen — the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives — I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, “Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, “He is a madman.” I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, “Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.”

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

❤️

Kahlil Gibran, The Madman, His Parables and Poems

ownership rights

who

do

you

own

?

by

what

power

or

authorities

of

your

own

choosing

do

you

think

that

is

right

or

your

right

?

how

do

you

set

yourself

free

of

that

violence

?

ok –

do

that

!

be

free

!

NOW…

take

exquisite

care

of

yourself

❤️

Amy Lloyd

as above so below

10 months of this

days cycling

through good days

and bad. Bringing

food offerings to be accepted

or not. Speaking words understood

or misplaced in an empty bucket.

Days of cheer, followed closely

by days of anguish. Day

after day. All

having one hallmark. Completely

consumed. No one

else matters much here

in this geographical oddity, two weeks from everywhere. The world

doesn’t really come to play

or into play here. There is no concern for events outside only these days of never ending circles. Even

cell reception won’t allow for company. No one attends

to this particular space

in the world. As folks here

cling to their shallow breathing. In

illness, as

in living. Days

are consumed by beds and toilets. Life

is, at some point, reduced to a room

with no view.

🙏🏻

Living with Alzheimers by Amy Lloyd

It was easy enough

to bend them to my wish,

it was easy enough

to alter them with a touch,

but you

adrift on the great sea,

how shall I call you back?

Cedar and white ash,

rock-cedar and sand plants

and tamarisk

red cedar and white cedar

and black cedar from the inmost forest,

fragrance upon fragrance

and all of my sea-magic is for nought.

It was easy enough—

a thought called them

from the sharp edges of the earth;

they prayed for a touch,

they cried for the sight of my face,

they entreated me

till in pity

I turned each to his own self.

Panther and panther,

then a black leopard

follows close—

black panther and red

and a great hound,

a god-like beast,

cut the sand in a clear ring

and shut me from the earth,

and cover the sea-sound

with their throats,

and the sea-roar with their own barks

and bellowing and snarls,

and the sea-stars

and the swirl of the sand,

and the rock-tamarisk

and the wind resonance—

but not your voice.

It is easy enough to call men

from the edges of the earth.

It is easy enough to summon them to my feet

with a thought—

it is beautiful to see the tall panther

and the sleek deer-hounds

circle in the dark.

It is easy enough

to make cedar and white ash fumes

into palaces

and to cover the sea-caves

with ivory and onyx.

But I would give up

rock-fringes of coral

and the inmost chamber

of my island palace

and my own gifts

and the whole region

of my power and magic

for your glance.

💫

Circe by H. D.

 

responsive moments

Because you are alive, everything is possible.

-Thich Nhat Hanh

The bumper sticker says Live In The Moment! on a Jeep

that cuts me off. I’m working to forget it, to let go

of everything but the wheel in my hands,

as a road connects two cities without forcing them

to touch. When I drive by something, does it sway

toward me or away? Does it slip into the past

or dance nervously in place? The past suffers

from anxiety too. It goes underground, emerging

once in a blue moon to hiss. I hear the grass never

saying a word. I hear it spreading its arms across

each grave & barely catch a name. My dying wish

is scattering now before every planet. I want places to

look forward to. Listen: the earth is a thin voice

in a headset. It’s whispering breathe… breathe…

but who believes in going back?

💞

The Past Suffers Too by Ben Perkert

Between stimulus and response, there is a space.

In that space is our power to choose our response.

In our response lies our growth and our freedom.

~Victor Frankl

for such a time as this

what if it all comes down to this moment in time

this arena you stand in right now

this opportunity straight ahead in the path

this pickle

this dilemma

this hot spot

this crisis

this…

just this…

this choice for you to take as it is

to rise strong in your glory

to be all that you can be

this very morning

🌝

Amy Lloyd

cosmos

and there was light.

Now God says, Give them a little theatrical lighting

and they’re happy,

and we are. So many of us

dressing each morning, testing

endless combinations, becoming in our mirrors

more ourselves, imagining,

in an entrance, the ecstatic

weight of human eyes.

Now that the sun is sheering

toward us, what is left

but to let it close in

for our close-up? Let us really feel

how good it feels

to be still in it, making

every kind of self that can be

looked at. God, did you make us

to be your bright accomplices?

God, here are our shining spines.

Let there be no more dreams of being

more than a beginning.

Let it be

that to be is to be

backlit, and then to be only that light.

💫

And in the beginning God said Light by Mary Szybist

The whole cosmos can be packed into a mustard seed. Time and space are a relative experience.

Jaggi Vasudev

In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand, there is the story of our earth.

― Rachel Carson

Brightness.

Light.

Warm.

Cheerful.

Goal for life:

Practice radiance.

Be light.

💫

Amy Lloyd

I contain multitudes

Of course I didn’t.

But I feel like I wasted a month.

A year.

A few years.

Definitely today.

Of course I didn’t -(I don’t believe in that, tempting as it can be)

Oh – I may not have made the most of it – of them –

Still, I’ve had them, moment by moment,

obscure unintended unintentional oblivious as they seem.

I have hurt and honored and honested.

I have lied awake, sweating and doubting.

And I have slept.

Is that so wrong? I have a judgment about that.

It doesn’t look at all the way I thought.

(But ok. Herein lies truth. Herein lies poetry. Herein lies… )

💫

Running Past by Robin OK

I’m not sure if I am standing

but I feel faint and dizzy

the room spins,

as the world tilts,

as death hangs out in the dining room

shuffling papers on the table.

I witness daily fading.

The land of the living feels very far away.

I want to run.

I want to seek fun –

people and activities.

I want to walk in sunshine and fresh air.

How can I have courage at a time like this?

How can I wait?

How can I wait for God?

For impending death?

How can I know that strength will come?

That is ground will hold my weight?

How can I bear wasting my life in this manner?

Aren’t there more important things needing to be done?

How can I trust,

what I cannot do on my own?

Can I possibly do it through waiting?

getting out of the way?

allowing this to be the plan?

Live into surrender, when it’s so unbearable?

I have seen many things before now.

faithful things.

Miraculous things.

I have never been abandoned.

There have been times I did not wait,

I know them well,

they turned out badly.

And so, I will wait,

I will see the goodness of what is behind

and before

and especially right now.

and so, having done all I can,

I stand,

I wait,

knees knocking

hands shaking,

smiling watery,

way too woozy to walk.

This, my friends, I have suddenly realized,

IS what courage looks like…

on any given day on earth.

Hang on, little tomato

life is for you,

Always!

🍅

Amy Lloyd

And then tomorrow comes

The stars have disappeared, for now

Sunrise has given us a beautiful newly fresh canvas

to adorn with the colors of our

adventures in living

we are here with our morning routine

And a fresh cup of coffee that tastes new to this day

We check the weather

We talk to the trees

We give thanks for our breath

and move into this gift called living

Where every day is an adventure

full of miracles

Once we wake up

and choose to see the magic

of the cardinal that sits

on our windowsill

staring us right in the eyes

we delight in

the tingling expectation

of visiting friends for dinner

we shake off the ghosts of last nights discontent

nothing ever goes to waste

the best is always yet to come

some of our juiciest days are just around this next bend

Everything is grace…

if we believe

❤️

Amy Lloyd

becoming the morning

Early morning dark and quiet,

so still you can hear God,

then the sun rises like slow jazz,

vibrating through thin clouds,

they look like strings of cotton candy

stretching sideways,

you listen to the morning birds,

the thought of coffee makes you smile,

but the jazz is so smooth and relaxing,

you slip back into a drowsy dream.

〰️

J. D. James

you’re embarrassed by your own om

you say—planning your funeral

considering deep drones

only a limited number of patterns

exist for such a song

played in one breath

a prayer for a pregnant woman’s easy delivery

a tender preamble for a new instrument

a piece played for expressing gratitude

a state of mind resembling moonlight

a lighter one for festive occasions

a piece for overcoming difficulties that could have been handled better

a piece representing manifestations of self-discipline

an offering at a service for the dead

a piece expressing longing for home

if there are indeed

“still songs to sing beyond mankind”

we’ll need those

now

〰️

shakuhachi repertoire, handwritten from liner notes by Jen Bervin

I will have become

like the madman

running

to see the moon

in the window,

the hawk

I saw tracing

the cliff edge

above the river.

I will be the man

I have pursued

all along

and finally caught.

I will be

all my intuitions

and all my desires

and then I will walk

slowly

down the steps

as if dressed in white

and wade into the water

for a second baptism.

I will be like

someone who cannot

hide their love

but my joy will become

ordinary

and everyday

and like a lover

I will find out

exactly what it is like

to be the happiest,

the only one in creation

to really

understand

how much,

I’m just a hair’s breadth

from dying.

…

Excerpted From

MORTALITY MY MISTRESS.

in RIVER FLOW:

New and Selected Poems © David Whyte and Many Rivers Press

Before I take communion

I confess my

ancestral malady,

weakness of the will.

I long for a comforter

to strengthen me with

the grace of heaven.

Therefor in the evening,

I listen to the thrush.

In the morning,

raindrops on ferns.

〰️

Fred LaMotte

THE SUBVERSIVE SOUL

We tend to focus on, and speak about the soul-life of an individual in terms of spiritual comfort and deep nourishment, qualities which are a central, and abiding dynamic of its presence, but the equally unsettling and disturbing quality about this strange, often wild and courageous faculty of belonging inside us we have come to name ‘the soul’ is its ruthless, and almost tidal wish to find its own way to a fuller union with the world. The soul is a planner’s nightmare, the career counselor’s central puzzle, the biographer’s conundrum, the saboteur of the puritanical and the unimaginative; an internal abiding spring that is both a source and a flow: an internal stranger at the door of our outer life about to break everything apart; a pilgrim often suddenly more in love with the horizon than its home; and most disturbingly, someone who would much rather fail spectacularly at their own life than succeed drably at someone else’s.

❤️

Winter Thoughts © David Whyte 2018