Here we go into a new adventure!! I would love to have you come along! If you enjoyed Life: acoustic and amplified I am very hopeful you will enjoy this new space with me!!!
Beginning at the very tip-end of 2016 and the very squeaky start of 2017!!!
No man is an island,
Entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
As well as if a promontory were:
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
No man is an island by John Donne
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
Wild Nights—Wild Nights! (249) by Emily Dickinson
A woman with a scarf over her head hoists her six-year-old up onto the first step of the school bus. “Good-bye,” she says.
A father on the phone with his freshman son has just finished bawling him out for his poor grades. There is mostly silence at the other end of the line. “Well, good-bye,” the father says.
When the girl at the airport hears the announcement that her plane is starting to board, she turns to the boy who is seeing her off. “I guess this is good-bye,” she says.
The noise of the traffic almost drowns out the sound of the word, but the shape of it lingers on the old man’s lips. He tries to look vigorous and resourceful as he holds out his hand to the other old man. “Good-bye.” This time they say it so nearly in unison that it makes them both smile.
It was a long while ago that the words God be with you disappeared into the word good-bye, but every now and again some trace of them still glimmers through.
~Frederick Buechner originally published in Whistling in the Dark and later in Beyond Words
I will creating new things. I believe in poetry….it is foundational in my life and healing.
I will do at least one last post to redirect those interested to my new spaces in the world.
I leave you with a most exciting quote from my friend Peter Block:
Every time we walk into a room the future walks in with us!
I like your wide open window soft abandon
your wild free wheelin rambunctiousness
a soft new invention
a concoction of sensual indigenous aromas
and I want to hear you sing
your wild buffalo song
my axe wailing some new chord
with the sun on our backs
cool water in our packs
I want our hikes to go on for days
exploring everything wild
fully contaminated with green forest and wild herbs
till our blood is so fully and completely inoculated
with chlorophyll and light
that our dreams become plainly visible
as the light runs from the skies
and the sun dims
we will lie on warm ground
inventing a new perfume
under a blanket of whispering stars
Adam A. DeFranco
with my heart.
How can I contain my passion for snails?
For otters, milkweed in autumn,
the holes in old socks that live
for decades in a drawer,
stray cats, lonely porcelain
Sleeping Beauty and the Prince
salt and pepper shakers,
coyotes moaning in the wetland,
wayward petals that wander
far from their roses
on rain-swollen breaths of September.
Each creature, I’m afraid,
is my favorite partner.
You, you above all.
I say that to everyone, don’t I?
After love making,
the universe and I just lie here
gazing through our tears.
Who is the sweat-beaded Dancer?
Who is the Witness wearing only
a necklace of stars?
One who burns completely,
leaving neither smoke
Alfred K. LaMotte
but please, don’t give me that stuff
about God playing hard to get.
She is so into you
I can’t believe you don’t see it.
She’s flagrant about it.
She writes you the steamiest letters
in the colors of sky and leaf,
in stone and sea and child,
her hands are all over you,
she has moves that—admit it—
make you blush.
He’s in your dreams,
whispers to you when you aren’t listening.
You think those scriptures are some dry text
but it’s him, fawning all over you,
saying your name.
She wears the most revealing outfits,
struts her stuff, begs for attention.
They’ve always been like that.
Going on singles cruises,
trolling the skankiest bars in town,
hoping for luck.
She has no shame, no holding back.
I’d take her aside and talk to her
about decorum and such,
I can’t even get in the same room with her
without her climbing all over me.
She’s yours, mate.
Yeah, it’s a little wild. Razor’s edge.
I get why you pull back.
Secretly, so in the dark you don’t even know,
it’s your own heart that’s flirting
with everything that moves.
She’s the one
who’s holding you quietly, calmly, murmuring,
“Easy. Easy. I’m right here.
You’ve got me. It’s OK.”
I want to lay with you
in a tangle of sheets and tongues and crazy, wild hair
with the rain beating against the foggy windowpane
and touch your face
as our warm
eyes and souls and bodies
melt into one
the perfect trifecta
I want to stay there
and then another endless, beautiful day
I’ll not ever ask for more
than to love
and be loved
Amy Lloyd (AL)
die for it–
or the world. People
have done so,
their small bodies be bound
to the stake,
fury of light. But
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun
for everyone just
as it rises
under the lashes
of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?
What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us? Call it
whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
~ Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems
Remember: Joy is not a sin; sacrifice is not a virtue.
❤️ Paulo Coelho ❤️
I tell my father about the way
I collect small things
in the sacs of my heart—
thick juniper berries
apple cores that retain their shape
and the click of shells
that sound like an oven baking.
He presses the mole on my shoulder
that matches his shoulder,
proof that I was not found
at the bottom of the sea.
I also got his feet, far from
Cinderella’s dainty glass slippers
— and fingers, too wide for most
Cracker Jack wedding rings.
I read how some mammals never
forget their young—
their speckled spots, odd goat
cries, or birthmarks on curved ivory tusks.
There must be some
thread of magic there
cooling honey to stone—where
like recognizes like or how
a rib seeks its twin.
A Taste of Blue by Cynthia Manick
Our survival adaptations are so tough, but our wounds are so delicate. To heal, we have to lift the armor carefully- it saved our lives, after all. It’s like moving your best friend off to the side of the path. You don’t trample on her, you don’t hit her with a sledgehammer. You honor her presence like a warm blanket that has kept you safe and sound during wintry times. And then, when the moment is right, you get inside and stitch your wounds with the thread of love, slowly and surely, not rushing to completion, nurturing as you weave, tender and true. The healing process has a heart of its own, moving at its own delicate pace. We are such wondrous weavers…
– Jeff Brown
at the center
after growing circle
in the mind
for a far circumference
that holds as focus
an interior so far in
we find ourselves
by looking out
at what looks back,
the lighted edge
of rock and sky,
over the horizon
to the night
beneath our feet,
where light cannot live
but whose darkness
makes a ground
on which to stand.
of those who
at the same horizon
and the same
who saw a world
that witnessed them
at a privileged
their lives caught
in the glance
of what lies beyond
for a fleeting
From LON’S FORT
From Pilgrim: Poems by David Whyte
If you cannot refuse to fall down,
refuse to stay down.
If you cannot refuse to stay down,
lift your heart toward heaven,
and like a hungry beggar,
ask that it be filled.
You may be pushed down.
You may be kept from rising.
But no one can keep you from lifting your heart
It is in the middle of misery
that so much becomes clear.
The one who says nothing good
came of this,
is not yet listening.
–Clarissa Pinkola Estes
– Mahatma Gandhi
– Bruce Lee
Windows is shutting down, and grammar are
On their last leg. So what am we to do?
A letter of complaint go just so far,
Proving the only one in step are you.
Better, perhaps, to simply let it goes.
A sentence have to be screwed pretty bad
Before they gets to where you doesnt knows
The meaning what it must be meant to had.
The meteor have hit. Extinction spread,
But evolution do not stop for that.
A mutant languages rise from the dead
And all them rules is suddenly old hat.
Too bad for we, us what has had so long
The best seat from the only game in town.
But there it am, and whom can say its wrong?
Those are the break. Windows is shutting down.
Windows is Shutting Down by Clive James
My name is Tara and I’m 55 years old Precious Moments angel statue I would not classify myself as a hoarder, more of a rescuer of Target receipts When I first moved in it was just mostly boxes because I was moving in then I tried to unpack but everything just got put wherever Martha Stewart magazines I just started asking God that I would like to know what it would be like to have an organized sea of stuffed frogs A bed looks like a bed with picnic baskets And your table doesn’t have stuff on it it’s a painting of a cornucopia And the couch you can sit on it people can sit on it like American girl dolls Well I’ve finally come to the realization I have too much Praise Hymn compact discs I told God that I just have this one wish and this one dream that Lord you just send someone to help Jesus Christ Hearts Me Florida license plate holder My mother, she had a one-bedroom Nativity set We all ended up sleeping in the same crumbling Family Circus comic strip I didn’t know how a house was supposed to be tangle of mismatched electronic cords I haven’t been in the closet in five years because Victorian dolls I realized I have to let some things go because how am I ever going to get out of this mayhem and foolishness if I don’t Walking in Wisdom Embracing Love 2005 calendar You have to be willing to do the work McDonald’s minions Happy Meal toys You have to be able to let it go uncashed paycheck from 2008 If you don’t, it will swallow you flattened American flag balloon My brain is not wired for this 18-year old pile of unopened mail I’m trying to recover from a migraine marching penguin with Santa hat I’ll do that tomorrow but then tomorrow something else happens candy cane stuck to the floor Whoa, that’s my vertigo lint roller covered in lint I don’t want to deal with cordless phones coated in dust I need to breathe nearly natural poinsettias I’m hoping and praying for a miracle unused Trisha Yearwood tickets from 1999 I always felt like if Jesus came to the door and opened the door I would have felt so shamed because I wasn’t showing gratefulness and pink Jesus Christ “Enjoy” baseball cap in Coca Cola font Those are mine, I keep those Bed Bath and Beyond crystal Kleenex holders I didn’t realize there was so much dust Easter bunny I have done the Lord’s work humbly Thomas Kinkaide puzzle of Cinderella castle Yes and with tears
Hoarders: Tara by Kate Durbin
I drive down Copperleaf Lane
looking at those copper leaves
falling from the poplar trees
(well, to tell the truth,
I’m not sure they’re poplars
but that fits well with my poem…
it’s called poetic license)
I see why the street is named thus, though
it is a copper way
on a copper day
Must have been named in fall
because other seasons the leaves were all
not living up to their name
rule breaking in their seasons
shades of green to green
I love nature
reveals so much about how we could live
one slow beautiful movement within them all
in each one precious moment in our time of time
paying no mind to the rules, we find
words, and trees, always finding their rhyme
Amy Lloyd (AL)
there’s this whisper promise
in the breeze,
a bit of ethereal fog slipping between the sheets
and dawn breaking.
there’s this rumor running
afoot in this new born day,
a sideways glance of something –
Oh it’s JOY!
and all this glory burning hot.
there’s this holy hushing
songs of angels,
a chorus of bluebells
as they watch it all approaching.
there’s this first blush of light,
a bit like the bitter and sweet
mixed each day with our longing
for joy to come nest.
there’s a song playing on low
sometimes you forget to remember
be still and know
as sure as spring follows winter
love always wins
listen to your heartbeat
joy is our birthright
morning has come
Amy Lloyd (AL)
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out — no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
At times, our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.
i am the fire by the sea
i am the fire in the forest
burning down all of the trees
i am the fire in the snow
i am the fire that will warm you
when your bones have grown cold
i am the fire for your bread
i am the fire for your hunger
whenever you go to bed
i am the fire on the water
i am the fire that is near
i am the fire burning your words
consuming your doubt and your fear
i am the fire of your soul
i am the fire of your loving
i will never grow cold
i am the fire for your spring
i am the fire of your living
passion and life i will bring
i am the fire where you die
i am the fire of your Phoenix
as you rise, as you soar, to the sky
Amy Lloyd (AL)
You cannot seek water
from the one
who drained your seas,
and you cannot build
a home for your worth
inside of another being.
The medicine is when
you return to yourself
where you will remember
reclaim your own rhythm,
and write your new song.
a poem from Victoria Erickson’s wonderful new book- Rhythms and Roads… Check it out here..
photo above by Fisherman Dan @ Branford, CT
in the world between worlds
where the shimmering abstract
holds all the secrets within us
words are absent
no scripture exists
there are no definitions
as there is no need for such things
in our eternal knowing
we are ever-being known
the mystic colors of God fill us
unseeable in this earthly realms obscured vision
they hold us there
where we don’t need to be understood
or understand anything
we are simply
all we could ever hope to be
we are the lover and the beloved
You in I
I in you