life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “Imagine”

awareness is the key to change 

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


TO STAND HERE
is to stand

at the center

of circle 

after growing circle

and reach

in the mind

for a far circumference

that holds as focus

an interior so far in

so concentrated

with origin

we find ourselves

by looking out

at what looks back,

the lighted edge 

of rock and sky,

the sweet

unmoving darkness

over the horizon 

that makes

a perfect 

beckoning symmetry

to the night

beneath our feet,

the underground

where light cannot live

but whose darkness

makes a ground 

on which to stand.
The central 

ancestral story

of those who

lived here

looking out

at the same horizon

and the same 

surrounding

ground,

who saw a world

that witnessed them

at a privileged 

center,

their lives caught

like ours

in the glance

of what lies beyond

only 

for a fleeting

moment.

From LON’S FORT

From Pilgrim: Poems by David Whyte


Refuse to fall down

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

toward heaven

only you.

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

Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.

   – Mahatma Gandhi


I’m not here to live up to your expectations and you’re not here to live up to mine. 

    – Bruce Lee

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the dr is in   

Living systems never really settle down. 
        – John Holland

                We were only to sleep for a short while. 

Words stuck in thick layers , they are there and then they are gone …and the fire burns day and night…like some drift wood set a blaze on a lonely hill. 

Not many know the fire…not many know the Way…

but that fire keeps setting the sun to blaze; Spirit beats within the body and pages are blank…

 It is everything, and it is nothing.

  Spirit empties one to naked longing, then traps the soul in a loving embrace. 

Vowed to live it’s days on earth, as it is in heaven…

Soul , human body with mystery and mayhem…

With preoccupation with the Holy; with adoration won…with words that ache to be heard but have no expression in this realm…

Veil once torn…eye filled with Light…

Worlds riding within worlds…glances, witness, wonders. 

The madness that comes, when you know God,

Come back on a black horse, for the fire will chase all the others away.

Ride like the wind, knowing nothing at all….and living the Fire.

Beauty,

Donna Knutson

Above the ground after a brief silence

they resume their war

before they are even out of the graveyard,

climbing over each other

trying to save their own lives,

clawing at some unseen soil above them,
while beneath he rests in peace,

where, after all, we each long to be,

borne to our resting ground, 

cherished and at peace,

soon and very soon.
Could I slip beneath the grass

of my battlefields and travel there?

Can I find a way to live 

without that combat,

rest without that death,

to grant to the wicked

the eternal peace of the living?
God, bury me

beneath the feet of my anxieties.

Let them go on without me, arguing. 

Let me be a ghost of grace,

untroubled, unbound,

interred in love. 

         

__________________ 

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

Fidelity by Regina Spektor

all day long

the music inside me

walks me through

every day the song-lists play 

weaving themselves into the world

around my going

just yesterday

you created new symphonic occurrences 

to be forever included 

in my smile

my senses refined by the touch of you

the wind gently touching my face

with delicate fingers

my sweat soaked body 

reminds me of that deep burning fire

life plays on and on

with me for this very moment

right here 

right now

part of the harmony

a single black, dotted note

creating my little piece

of the grand composition 

the masterpiece would be completely different 

without me

without you

🎶

Amy Lloyd (AL)


One of the greatest mistakes we make in this life, I think, is losing hope when we don’t get what we want RIGHT AWAY. It takes time to do anything that matters—to change, to learn to love, to build a business or grow a child or grow into ourselves.

Sadly, too many of us (myself included) lose heart when we don’t see results RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

And when we lose hope, we lose everything.

Hope is not this fluffy thing we sometimes think it is. Hope is dangerous. It’s radical. When we hope, we take a tremendous risk, waiting and waking our hearts to something that we know full well may never come to fruition. There are no guarantees in this life. We do not have 100% control.

Hope hurts. If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t hope.

And yet I am learning what it means to take LONG view. As I look back over the past 33 years of my life, I realize most of the things I have hoped for have taken DECADES to grow into themselves. It takes a LONG, LONG TIME for things to make sense.

Hope trusts the process—that even if we don’t get the thing we want right away, the story is not over. It’s not completely written.

Hope is steadfast and unwavering. It keeps going and gong and going.

Whatever you’re waiting for, hoping for, wishing for, don’t give up. Keep hoping. Most things don’t make sense until later. Hope is your lifeline. It is your only way home.

🏡
Allison Fallon



today’s weather 


Todays weather calls for

Sunny outlook

with occasional clouds floating through

a few showers always possible

through out the day

daisies sure to peek out of the green grass

just to smile for me

wine and laughter at sunset

moon tonight 

full of you

with a sweet dream or two 

and more than a few songs

sure to drift through me

continuing on 

into my sleeping hours

Waking to a great new day of promise ‪tomorrow‬ 

🔁

Amy Lloyd (AL)

check in



“This is my living faith, an active faith, a faith of verbs: to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, argue, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek.”

— from LEAP by Terry Tempest Williams
With Leap, Terry Tempest Williams, award-winning author of Refuge, offers a sustained meditation on passion, faith, and creativity-based upon her transcendental encounter with Hieronymus Bosch’s medieval masterpiece The Garden of Delights. Williams examines this vibrant landscape with unprecedented acuity, recognizing parallels between the artist’s prophetic vision and her own personal experiences as a Mormon and a naturalist. Searing in its spiritual, intellectual, and emotional courage, Williams’s divine journey enables her to realize the full extent of her faith and through her exquisite imagination opens our eyes to the splendor of the world. READ an excerpt: http://knopfdoubleday.com/book/191447/leap/


threads that won’t break 


On Dec 3, 2014 (2 year anniversary of my living death in the dark night of the soul, I got a post titled Love never Dies from Jen Lemen at Hopeful World http://hopefulworld.org

Here’s a taste of what it said:
I am struck also as I write to you from this wintery desk, that building our capacity for stillness helps so much when the wild comes to our restless souls. Without that practice of being quiet, it’s easy to be scared when our wild, instinctual thoughts pop up. It’s easy to think that they are bad somehow or in need of corralling. But the practice of quiet and stillness helps us recognize our instinctual knowing for what it is: a call to our most true nature. A call to a kind of expression that is more vibrant, more textured, more passionate, more alive–even if it’s a little bit messy. Even if it kicks up a little bit of shame that we are this human, this raw.
So I invite you today to sit with me for three magic minutes. I’ll be right here with you, my own mind a rollercoaster of crazy, of frantic, of nonsensical worrisome things. I’ll sit with you and notice everything in my own soul, while you notice everything in yours and together we will begin to knit together an understanding of what’s underneath that noise: a gorgeous, exquisite tapestry of human longing designed to carry us to an awake magnificent place.
Will you join me?

Setting the timer now.

Let me know how it is on the other side.
With so much love,

Jen
It’s now 3.5 years later and Jen Lemen is still bringing all that, and more to me, to you, to the shaky, hoping world, to the edges of eternity…love never dies. 
Today, in this crazy, brutal brutal place, where we ask…
how can these two people be our Presidential choices?
how can people keep killing other people?
how can I deal with the grief and the fear of this? 
how can I help?
what is the solution? 
what is my part? 
Jen Lemen is doing her part. She’s offering Soul Snacks – 
http://www.thewayofdevotion.org/soul-snacks
Amazing gifts to all of of struggling, hungry, hurting, angry, frustrated pilgrims and poets. 
Right now she has open enrollment and I have just this…
Don’t wait! http://www.thewayofdevotion.org/soul-snacks
Gobble this up, savor it a bite at a time, eat them from start to finish, or nibble from the middle to each edge of crust. Savory, delectable soul-spices involving all your most subtle senses. 
http://www.thewayofdevotion.org/soul-snacks

💞

Keep wrestling, burn, scream, let go, melt, let your heart keep breaking for the sake of your heart, keep saying the names of your people, fiercely defend your tenderness, think, grieve, repair, renew, continue to do what’s in your heart to do…each thread matters…each color makes the world more beautiful…
in the end, only love is eternal, only love remains…
http://www.thewayofdevotion.org/soul-snacks

🔥

AL


We are God’s thread

weaving through the tapestry,

the masterpiece is slowly 

created. 

Potential for beauty, we can’t know,

    unfolding,

       becoming,

          revealing glory 

so bright 

it makes the sun squint 

and reach for sunglasses.  

Brilliance so far beyond ourselves

we go shining into the gray

as we open to the new jewels appearing,

sparkling in the moonlight. 

As we step into the needle’s eye 

the angels catch their breath,

cheering our blazing garments,

dazzled by the vision

God is revealing through the creation. 

As we surrender to the greatest mystery,

the beauty we inhabit 

becomes us,

walking in humble clay

eyes out shining the stars 

set in the heavens. 

Until we totally disappear and all that’s left

is holiness 

so pure 

all we can do 

    is 

bow in wonder 

at ourselves

and give thanks 

as the silk thread 

becomes liquid gold and silver

pure and simple

glory

as we realize our place in the whole. 

We are the temple of our creator. 

The home of God. 

😎

AL



As deftly and finally as one pulls out a thread

someone is weaving them, gracefully tying them,

minute and irreversible.
In the towering sky, even under the fortress, 

root tendrils muscle in and bind ligaments

through an abyss we had been told was absolute.
No enormity of terror

can keep up  

with the steady, unseen healing. 
Before the assault, the horrible wound, 

gaping and exposed,

the stitching has already begun.
Even as we sigh in our own world,

moving on, separate,

we are being sewn in. 
In the earthquake, the collapsing mountains,

not a bit of rubble falls

on the path from the temple.
If you could hold your immortal soul

in your hands, you would hardly recognize it

from one moment to the next.
Your grave is already empty. 
__________________  

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net


photo sources found at pinterest.com

otters and birthdays and glimpses of the mystery   


Yeah, so, the past month has been an intense one for me in every way. A bit emotionally brutal. We can all relate, I’m sure. It’s shown me a lot of new things about myself, also revealed some new glimpses of this mystical mystery named, so simply, “Love,” in our language. 

I’ve been a student of the nature of Love for the past 7 years, which doesn’t seem very long, now that I write it down, but, I have to report, just this short time of study, it has changed me in every area of my life. 

My studies are always, first and foremost, practical. To me nothing I ‘believe’ is worth anything if it does not actually work in my living to bring me healing, make me a better human, remove my baggage to reveal my highest and best self, lead me into paths of peace and load my arms with fruit to share with fellow pilgrims along the way…and, so, I began by asking God to reveal what love was and how love worked. 

My first flash came in 2009, riding on a CT commuter train from New Haven to Branford, looking at the marsh fly by. I had been asking for some days, intensely seeking, when God showed himself to me as ‘LOVE.’ That brief instant changed everything for me. I experienced the Aleph of The Mystery and left that train, completely changed a flash or, in real time less than 30 minutes…

Many wonderful writers have helped me along this open-ended, unlimited path of discovery on this topic. I must give much beautiful credit to Henri Nouwen, who helped me early on in my excavation of this topic. His revelations, and life surrendered to this mystery, have inspired much learning in my own voyage on this simple, yet so radical, path. 

Over these years, I felt lead to share some of my tiny bits of insight with others – it has just been so amazing! So beautiful! So everything – I just wanted others to open to it as well, to learn and heal along with me!  Over these years I have learned to be a writer and a poet. Until recently I didn’t feel I could claim those ‘titles,’ but I do now, just another way love has changed me. I am so grateful. 

This brings us to yesterday, which brings us to Frederick Buechner’s 90th birthday! Buechner is one of the best, most beautiful, writers ever. Sometimes I stop breathing when I read his words. I won’t say more, at this moment, as this is becoming a very long post, but here’s my best advice: read him! 

Recently someone, somewhere, on Facebook, posted words by poet, Fred LaMotte. They deeply touched me and so I ‘friended’ him. Then he began posting his words and I found myself on Amazon ordering one of his books. I received it last week, and it has been moving me into some very deep waters. 

Yeah, so, back to yesterday, I re-posted a happy birthday write-up about Buechner and then…

I got this comment from Fred LaMotte:

He was the reason I became a teacher and a school chaplain. When I was a 10th grader at Exeter Academy (near Boston) he was the school chaplain. It was before he became a writer. One dreary morning in late Winter, we were 700 half asleep boys in morning ‘Chapel’ (it was just an assembly really), and decided to read to us. He read the entire 7th chapter of ‘The Wind In The Willows,’ ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn.’ It was very long and I think I might have been the only one stayed awake. It was amazing. Not only did it show me my first real piece of spiritual writing, but I thought, “Wow! This is his job? Reading to people about the great God Pan? I want to do this!” Thank you Frederick Buechner.

💞

WOW!! Then Fred LaMotte shared that chapter of the Wind and the Willows, ya know, the one that inspired some pretty intense poetry, which is, at this moment plowing up some new fields in my back forty…

Wow upon WOW!

Here’s that link. My advice: Read it!! 

http://yourradiance.blogspot.com/2013/03/piper-at-gates-of-dawn.html?m=1

I have not read The Wind in the Willows since I was a teenager, and, at that time I remember thinking it was rather stupid. My thoughts being something like, ‘Good grief, what in the heck is this about?’ 

Yesterday, I finally ‘got it!’ I broke down. I took my shoes off and bowed to the glory. Yesterday, a gift of love I offered was returned to me, unaccepted. I ‘got it!’ I broke down. I took my shoes off and bowed to the glory. There’s no right or wrong here, just gift. I choose to be only grateful to continue on in the, ‘yes and amen!’ of it all. 

I have no idea what Love (God) will teach me next. I am a very humble beginner. No Master here. Just a girl who cannot believe how lucky I am to be on this narrow road. A very unlikely pilgrim, I. Always wearing inappropriate shoes for climbing these steep hills, but somehow, always getting the view of the most beautiful sunsets imaginable. I guess it’s true what Babe Ruth said, ‘You can’t beat a man who keeps getting up!’

Here’s a song I wrote for my children’s musical about my life of faith, named: The Fantastical Inside-Out-Upside-Down Journey of a Rich Little Poor Girl 


 You Otter Know (verses spoken in the style of Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant/choruses in Sinatra style)

I was walking in the forest 

I was feeling all alone

The birds and bees were sleeping,

the weeping willow weeping
Then I heard a little creature

Start moving oh so slow

and the little brook began to play

music with its toes

the woodpecker was keeping time

upon that tall oak tree

and I could not help start dancing

cause I knew it was for me

and as I whirled and twirled about 

I came upon a log

and the beaver and the otter (Frank Sinatra style Beaver. Sammy Davis Otter)  

were acting more like hogs (pushing each other to get to the log stage with microphone) 

and then they each began to croon

they’re words were oh so rare

I stood there for a moment

my foot still in the air
and they sang to me…
You otter know I love you

loved you from the start

(if you’ll beaver me

then I’ll beaver you

You never walk alone)

You otter know I love you

love your precious heart

(beaver me it’s true

I’ve always loved you

You’re never far from home)
and the band it just kept playing

and my happy heart did gasp

Cause this was so much better

than that silly talking a** 

uhhh donkey
Then my heart it felt so happy

and my eyes at last could see

That though I hadn’t been aware

You’d never once left me

and as I danced on down that path

 I swear I sang this song

The one my friends had written,

which had been there all along
and I sang…
You otter know I love you

loved you from the start

(if you’ll beaver me

then I’ll beaver you

You never walk alone)

You otter know I love you

love your precious heart

(beaver me it’s true

I’ve always loved you

You’re never far from home

💞

AL

Ephesians 1:4

Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes.  

New Living Translation




You don’t have to melt

until you are ready. 

Remember this:
Each moil of your unoiled joints,

every numb stiff gristle of resistance,

cramp of anger, clabber of shame,
clot of envy, opinion or belief,

is simply a mass of refusal

contracted into “me,”
a particle afraid to waltz

with its field, a wave

that will not settle to its sea,
a sky who thinks it is a cloud,

a self who didn’t give up

I-dentity…
Don’t let go until you’re

ready, friend. You have forever. 

You remember this:
To melt is not to pass away,

but to pulverize diamonds 

with your dancing,
watch the spiraling fire

of your body, and witness

the whirled. 

🔥

Alfred K. LaMotte


Some mornings 

I wake up a king,

anointed, anticipated,

shining.
Some mornings

I wake up a pilgrim,

on a journey yet unseen,

but on a road laid out

with adventures to be met.
Some mornings 

I wake up a mule.

No power to wield,

nowhere to go,

just me, just here,

dull and pointless.
Those days

I must be 

most vigilant and ready,

for my master 

is a good samaritan

and I never know

when I will be needed

for something luminous.

__________________  

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net


photo sources found at http://www.pinterest.com

peace. love. seal the deal.   – Miles  


White and black cannot be found

in the ruins and valleys of a human face. 

You’re the dust in a wrinkled rainbow,

whorled pallet of earth tones,

ginger, sorrel, burnt sienna. 
Who called you “white,”

that disdain for shadows,

color of the fear of falling 

through the prism of contradictions?
You are not white, you are oak,

apple wood and dandelion. 

Make wine of yourself. 

Make a barrel of your bones. 

Acquire the flavor of your ancestors. 
Who called you “black,”

that abstraction of a laughing tear?

You are not black, you have sown

sunset in your cheek furrows. 

You are banyan, and mahogany,

kola nut and olive, cocoa bean of grief,

kinnikinnik of the sacred pipe. 

You are the night. 
Voracious love has dipped us both

in honey, meshed our dreams

in darkest cilia, netted our souls

like mushrooms in sweet loam,

the wild manure of one dragon. 
Through innumerable pungent roots

the same juice bears us upward

into starlight. 

🌠

Who Told You? by Alfred K. LaMotte



my heart hurts today

for this pain. 

I feel great sorrow,

shattering grief,

love cracks me open,

allows me to feel this

hurricane of rage,

this fraction of our creation –

soul division. 
for what we,

as human-kind,

have chosen to accept

within the soil of our borders,

our birthright is so much more. 

we are each beloved. 

we are royal, each and every one. 
sadness sits on me,

a heavy fog,

as I drive,

wait, 

pay,

that smarmy man 

with the weird goatee,

wearing the faded Jack Daniels t-shirt,

I try to love him – 

I humbly admit my failure today,

I promise to keep trying, 

it is my only hope to change this world.  

I return to my place in this universe,

the one I belong to for this moment –

I walk a mile quickly

my angst 

mixing with grief 

tears won’t stop

I walk this beach,

so familiar,

yet always new.

I pick up rocks, 

I move from rocks,

to sand,

to benches. 

I stand while the gulls float,

so easy,

so secure,

so assured,

so secure,

so loved,

so free. 

As I watch

peace fills me…
I let go…
always a brutal struggle for this stubborn girl, 

(I prefer to name that quality ‘determined’)

always, always, worth it. 
trusting life is a ruthless business. 

I choose to live,

I choose to feel,

I choose to open,

I choose to pay attention, 

I choose to connect,

I choose to participate,

I choose to love,

ruthlessly. 

What about you? 

💞

AL


God grant you the eyes of heaven

         to see each person’s divine belovedness

                  and so find joy.
God grant you a listening heart 

         to hear the cries of the silenced, 

                  and so gain wisdom. 
God grant you humility

         that unburdened by yourself

                  you may be free.
God grant you courage 

         to enter the world’s dark wounds, 

                  and so bring healing.  
God grant you patience, 

         to know the strength of the long journey, 

                  and so be given hope. 
God grant you a heart of love, 

         to be moved to action, 

                  and so receive deep peace.  
God grant you God’s own spirit 

         to share in the healing of the world, 

                  and so know God’s deep delight. 

__________________  

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net



read all about it


Especially in the afternoon when light slants

through the window, grazing her cheek on its way to the page.

For a woman who appreciates that kind of light for reading. 

Especially in mornings, when coffee makers groan. 

When everyone else is still climbing, still hand-over-handing their way

up from dreams. 

For the book

that fell into the bath

and was fished out — quickly. 

For the line

that swam before her as she fell

asleep. 

In stolen time: 

the check-out line, 

the way to work.

In fits and starts of traffic, 

in the press

of bodies. 

Especially

for anyone who’s ever missed her stop. 

For anyone who’s laughed out loud while reading

in a restaurant. 

Or ever thought of writing

to a stranger:

You told my story. 

How did you know?
Especially for a teenage girl whose touch

turns bookmarks into ash. 

And so she uses rubber bands, 

a roll of tape, 

a stray sock, 

a receipt, 

or my book

to hold her place open. 

Who won’t

come to supper till she finishes her page.

For a grandmother I know

about, who stirred with a book in one hand. 

For everyone stirring

with words in their hands. 

For anyone who’s ever grasped a book in two hands.

Hold your breath, and crack it open.

For books that have burned to be written. 

Books thrown into the fire

because supper wasn’t ready, or her chores had not been done.

For anyone who’s ever had anyone tell her:

All that reading makes you think too much.
 Especially when the leaves against the window

are a chorus from another time.

When evening comes, a woman stretches one curved arm to reach

the light behind her. 

She is reading while the birds take roost, and punctuate

the branches. 

Reading till her book is finished. 

Reading like a girl. 

📖

~Sue MacLeod


I didn’t intend to eat my 

Chocolatini Godiva Truffle 

until the very last. 

It was my shooting star. 

my most special to look forward to. 

my magic bullet. 

my favorite. 

Intented for the ending of the box celebration.  

saved

cherished

savored

but then I finished my book!  

I finished reading 

The Night Circus 

and my chocolatini was the closest thing

I could find to a chocolate mouse…

and so, I had to eat it! 

to celebrate!!!

What a cool book! 

Reading is my life,

books my passion, 

the smell of old libraries one of my favorites. 

Yet, I have not read a novel for a long time… 

have not found one that captured me in years…

until now. 

No hesitation with my truffle choice today,

it was the best show of respect

and gratitude I could give. 

The circus arrives without warning…

the circus of dreams…

and we are swept away by the very taste of it…

📚

AL

what if?


May this be a morning of innocent beginning,

 When the gift within you slips clear 

 Of the sticky web of the personal

 With its hurt and hauntings,

 And fixed fortress corners,
A morning when you become a pure vessel

 For what wants to ascend from silence,
May your imagination know

 The grace of perfect danger,
To reach beyond imitation,

 And the wheel of repetition,
Deep into the call of all 

 The unfinished and unsolved
Until the veil of the unknown yields

 And something original begins 

 To stir toward your senses

 And grow stronger in your heart… 

💞

John O’Donohue
Excerpt from, ‘For the Artist at the Start of Day’

 BENEDICTUS (Europe) / TO BLESS THE SPACE BETWEEN US (US)


…quietly just now, just one word:

Believe. 

Believe the best.

Believe the hard is being worked out for good.

Believe the best is still to come. 

Believe in the One who is Best.

Believe. [Mark9:23]

💞

   Ann Voskamp @ aholyexperience.com



refining thoughts


 Relax.
This won’t last long.
Or if it does, 
or if the lines make you sleepy or bored,

give in to sleep, turn on the T.V.,
 deal the cards.

This poem is built to withstand such things.

Its feelings cannot be hurt.
They exist somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.

Pick it up anytime.

Start it in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like.
Look, there’s a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he’ll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you’re busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it’s sex you’ve always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party’s unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don’t think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this 

is a poem for the entire family.

Right now, Budweiser is dripping from a waterfall,

deodorants are hissing into armpits of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don’t know what music this poem can come up with, 

but clearly it’s needed.

For it’s apparent 

they will never see each other again

and we need music for this
because there was never music 

when he or she

left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer than life.
I want you to look at it 

when anxiety zigzags your stomach

and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I’ll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don’t give anything for this poem.
It doesn’t expect much.
It will never say more 

than listening can explain.

Just keep it in your attache case 
or in your house.
And if you’re not asleep 

by now, or bored beyond sense,

the poem wants you to laugh.
😄

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry by Stephen Dunn


The purpose of poetry is not to create literary criticism. It exists to delight, instruct, and console living people in the sloppy fullness of their humanity.

☺️

    – Dana Gioia

Sometimes my words

stick 

inside my pen. 

Hidden within the

inky blood,

refusing to flow. 

Dammed up

blockage of

frozen heart,

stubborn mind,

unwilling soul,

refusing to know,

what is already known –

heard 10 thousand times

between the lines

of shaded eyes

refusing to grow. 

🙃

AL

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