life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

color me cool 

perhaps we are

saving each other

one song at a time

endlessly moving 

wind, waves, water

kissing the shore

achingly beautiful

true colors

of black and white

melting together, dancing

in and out

through each other

ever weaving, creating

new life

filling the empty

emptying the full

like music 




It was after dinner.

You were talking to me across the table

about something or other,

a greyhound you had seen that day

or a song you liked,
and I was looking past you

over your bare shoulder

at the three oranges lying

on the kitchen counter

next to the small electric bean grinder,

which was also orange,

and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.
All of which converged

into a random still life,

so fastened together by the hasp of color,

and so fixed behind the animated

foreground of your 

talking and smiling,

gesturing and pouring wine, 

and the camber of your shoulders
that I could feel it being painted within me,

brushed on the wall of my skull,

while the tone of your voice

lifted and fell in its flight,

and the three oranges

remained fixed on the counter

the way stars are said 

to be fixed in the universe.
Then all the moments of the past

began to line up behind that moment

and all the moments to come

assembled in front of it in a long row,

giving me reason to believe

that this was a moment I had rescued

from the millions that rush out of sight

into a darkness behind the eyes.
Even after I have forgotten what year it is,

my middle name,

and the meaning of money,

I will still carry in my pocket

the small coin of that moment,

minted in the kingdom

that we pace through every day


This Much I Do Remember by Billy Collins

He sculpts, carves, whittles

a fresh block of words 

he’s been led to 

by winds that whisper 

or make him shiver.
Slowly, lines take shape,                

come alive with sounds

the ear cannot hear;

reflections only seen 

by the inner eye; 

raw, natural scents 

from the tree itself.
He pulls colors from a rainbow,          

the surf, or maybe the sand;

at times he adds moisture 

from a tear.
And as with raw wood, 

he whittles—whittles, going with                          

the grain—braces the wood                                 

to flatten a knot, smiles at its 

character coming through—

will make a good piece. 
He sands until is all-over smooth, 

seals it with the joy of the craft, 

a fine piece that holds 

a part of himself—
now transformed into form 

     that lets the poem speak


The Poet and His Craft by Camille A. Balla

photo sources found at


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