life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

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Headache Headlines

by Dd. Spungin

Thermometer takes its temperature

Calls the emergency room doc
Iceberg breaks up with his family

Scientists search for Crazy Sno-Glue
World considers ending

Too many have not finished their lines
Write letters to invisible powers

Pray to invisible deities
Or just pour yourself a very large glass

And wait…


And still now every morning,

each momentary wish for healing

is a risk, a wakening call

to change, to choose,

to leave so much behind,

and be again made new.

– Steve Garnaas Holmes


Hey, Babe, can you write me a letter?

Every holy diadem of a single

solitary breathing

moment in this shelf of living

a single

solitary life

subsumed into

the pain of others

the holy grail of connection

filling this cup within my heart

this role play with each character

each story a classic

an epic tale of woe…

there is always room for more

than tables and candlesticks

turning a carpetbag into a steamer trunk

poppins would be proud to carry

under a particular umbrella

why do we so easily forget ourselves?

abundance is our birthright

gluttony a human pursuit

shared by many of our contemporaries

marking time by comparisons

making life a heaviness to be borne

where music falls as dirges

and the cracks we free-fall into

drop 45 minutes straight to the center of the circle

the letters we learn to write

always seem to start the same way

what would happen if I was not fine?

Cuz Im not so sure

I am…

feeling suspended

If you didn’t tell me how you are in such a smug word

but drizzle it sweetly, slowly, a bit at a time

throughout the scribed penmanship

a new thought might be magical

a new life might be born into being

Tito might get a new nickname, as a matter of fact


Amy Lloyd (AL)


This is the beginning. 

Almost anything can happen.

This is where you find

the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,

the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.

Think of an egg, the letter A,

a woman ironing on a bare stage

as the heavy curtain rises.

This is the very beginning.

The first-person narrator introduces himself,

tells us about his lineage.

The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.

Here the climbers are studying a map

or pulling on their long woolen socks.

This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.

The profile of an animal is being smeared

on the wall of a cave,

and you have not yet learned to crawl.

This is the opening, the gambit,

a pawn moving forward an inch.

This is your first night with her,

your first night without her.

This is the first part

where the wheels begin to turn,

where the elevator begins its ascent,

before the doors lurch apart.


This is the middle. 

Things have had time to get complicated,

messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.

Cities have sprouted up along the rivers

teeming with people at cross-purposes—

a million schemes, a million wild looks.

Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack

here and pitches his ragged tent.

This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,

where the action suddenly reverses

or swerves off in an outrageous direction.

Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph

to why Miriam does not want Edward’s child.

Someone hides a letter under a pillow.

Here the aria rises to a pitch,

a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.

And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge

halfway up the mountain.

This is the bridge, the painful modulation.

This is the thick of things.

So much is crowded into the middle—

the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,

Russian uniforms, noisy parties,

lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—

too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end, 

the car running out of road,

the river losing its name in an ocean,

the long nose of the photographed horse

touching the white electronic line.

This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,

the empty wheelchair,

and pigeons floating down in the evening.

Here the stage is littered with bodies,

the narrator leads the characters to their cells,

and the climbers are in their graves.

It is me hitting the period

and you closing the book.

It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen

and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.

This is the final bit

thinning away to nothing.

This is the end, according to Aristotle,

what we have all been waiting for,

what everything comes down to,

the destination we cannot help imagining,

a streak of light in the sky,

a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.





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