This Valentine Heart. . . .

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It is a truth. . . . Sometimes we cannot improve upon a something that supports a truth and this is one of those times for me.  As we approach Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it.  One day it will be yours again.

It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are.  It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart.  You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars.  You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you.  Never were you abandoned.  Never.  This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart

I lay my heart
crimson in splendor
beneath the branches
on fresh fallen snow,
open to my god. . . .

Here it is I am,
with all that I’ve gathered,
completed to form
just what you see.

The flakes have scattered
in splendid ways
to carpet the floor
as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please
but handle with care.
Sorely I need
a tender touch.

Life has tested me
to rare form.
I worked it all like Job
and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart
laid splendid on
the floor of the forest
but loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.

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Across The Table

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Across The Table

I remember the times we sat
and held hands across the table,
unable to say goodbye.

Not necessary we thought
for in the morrow
we meet again.

But soon the day arrived
when we did not meet,
expecting always a more

convenient time to come.
There were no other times
for when the day arrived

where darkness slid
behind the eyes,  the image
was no more reflected.

Foolish we were.
Did we not know public praise
could usurp a life?

But we sopped it up
and gloried in the satisfaction
of our own importance.

Forgetting that this illusion
was also supported
by hands held

across the table.

photo by
John Holmes

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Pause To Consider. . . .

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Engineering may code and modify DNA but individual evolution can be enhanced by emulating the behavior of one whose actions are above reproach.  It behooves everyone to action that does not send crossed signals.  We are not paranoid to think we are being watched.  As children we all had our role models whom we watched and were disappointed too many times.   We may have to pretend behavior we don’t normally wear,  but soon it will become who we are.  We can make a difference for the common good.  Or common ill.

                                                   *****

Whatever is not made peace with will piece the person.  It will break them into a million parts and they will never know that it can be peace-d nor seeing how they contribute to it all and will leave the adult body when they transit with behavior befitting the child in them.

 ******

We were told that what is done for one is done for all.  The lesson is profound when taken seriously and applied to everything.  Not just to the case in hand but to all cases and all hands.  Keep it always forefront.  The individual effort is noted and the heavens are not deaf nor are they blind.  The simplest and most menial task is only so when glimpsed within the structures of the day.  When taken to completion it becomes a sacred work of art.  Know it.

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We Are The Music

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We Are The Music

You say,

pull the shade!
Or the neighbors will see!

I say,

What will they see?
Us dancing?

I rest my head
upon your shoulder
and am happy
in the embrace.

Us dancing
in the kitchen
too small to move much,
but close in heart.

I say,

keep dancing.

You say,

but there is no music!

I say,

we are the music. . . . .

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The Endeavor True. . . . .

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Over the years I have found that if the desire is honest and the endeavor true  there comes into life what is needed. Not what is wanted but what is needed.  And into my life have come people who have supported and books that have affirmed my direction.  An author who came into my life when I so needed affirmation was Jane Roberts and her books on psychic phenomenon and her experiences with Seth for whom she channeled.

She came onto my life in the late sixties with her book. Seth Speaks.  I remember thinking,  oh she knows what it is like.  She had the best support in her husband who not only took notes but also prepared the manuscripts for her writings.  In doing some research recently,  coming to mind was Seth speaking about different civilizations and I remembered Lumania.  This was a peaceful, non violent species of physical beings who abhorred violence and died early because they never developed constructive means to channel expressions of anger and hostility.

We know we are more than what we appear to be.  Yet the human brain cannot begin to understand all that we are.  The Lumanians interested me because of their deep subconscious memory banks.  Bleed throughs are memories not of the current life and come unbidden.  Until our research begins to give space to those things intangible, and gives credence to the invisible,  we will continue to tout only the five senses and stymie evolution.  We will be no further ahead than we were when the greatest metaphysician tried to teach when he said  that my father’s house has many rooms.  And what you do for one you do for all.  As one of my readers emailed me and asked. evolution or salvation?  And I say both, if need be.  Why should one preclude the other?  Because if we dismiss evolution,  we might as well dismiss peace as a possibility.  And who can live without hope?

Jane Roberts and the Seth books,  Doris Lessing and the Shikasta Series,  Susan Howatch with her Church of England  series,  and Frank Herbert with the Dune books, these are my peer group I keep close to my chair.  These are old friends with whom I visit.  My newest visitor is Michael Talbot and his Holographic Universe which affirms for me my thinking since I came into this world without a putting place either for my memories or for myself. The others,  the ones with worn out covers where I keep doing reference work,  are my oldest friends,  my refuge.

Refuge In Dreams

In the beginning
when I was young
and when I was very cold,
I took my mammoth skin
and drew it closer about me
and found refuge in dreams.

Like a tourniquet,
it stopped the flow of life
out of me.

Now I am old
and I huddle still deeper
in my woolen wrap.
Closing my eyes,I discover
refuge again in my dreams.
And find it stops

the flow of life out of me.  Again.

 

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The Refuge, everlasting life. . . .

The Reserve

Across My Life

There were people
walking across my life,
leaving footprints, momentarily.

They were not lightweights
but real people
whose hearts mellowed
my life into pieces, manageable.

I loved them quickly, fiercely,
knowing they would
but stay a minute.
Now they are gone,
but leaving behind stretch marks
across my heart.
Would you or could you believe
a minute in my life
could do that?

And would this minute be worth
the happiness and
heartbreak of loss?

With life everlasting it could and it did.

Photo by
Joe Hallissey Jr.

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The Years The Locusts Have Taken. . . .

 

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More Compensation. . .

In my last posting I wrote that in Life there is a balance.  Emerson called it compensation.  I have found this to be more than accurate.  For me it has been a personal matter of Life giving and I receiving.  And to receive,  I must be open to what is given.  My hand and eye coordination I see disappearing while my head still robustly desires to do.  Like the little engine that could.  Except it becomes both physically and mentally stressful.  No amount of eye drops get rid of the itching and no amount of ripping out makes the article acceptable.

I came across a poem in one of my steno books I keep for notes when I go back to read journal entries.  I looked up the entry for that date and found that I had accomplished nothing.  There was nothing I could put my hands on.   But there was this poem and no doubt if I went back through the files  there would be much done in simple maintenance.  And maintenance in our lives is a big plus.  For me it meant the yard and house and family commitments.  A neighbor saw me doing outside work back then and yelled to ask if I was for hire.  Mister,  I shouted, you could not afford me and neither can my husband!

So in this period now in my dotage, I still find though there are things taken away because cells die off and others sometimes no better,  take their place.  Sometimes better though.  Sometimes.  So besides learning how to print on fabric, much to my delight,  I also found a new interest in the color blue or the many blues.  I did a small wall quilt with it which you see here.  I love it and it brings to mind the Lady of the Blue Cloths whom I have written about.  It is a new love being born, and kind of like a bit of heaven handed to me.  I look at it and smile and wonder.  And I wonder a lot. Wonder with me, if you will.

The Years The Locusts Have Taken

There is nothing new to say.
All of life is a variation of a dream.
How often they resemble one another
and easy it is to lose myself in them.

They are a dinner of words;
a potpourri of feelings;
a smattering of knowledge
which I inhale and forget.

Old age is upon me.
I dredge the gulley for a word
and find I falter, stutter and
leave everyone perplexed,
unable to finish my thought.

I grasped with eagerness as I read,
‘and the Lord God said
I will restore to you the lost years
the locusts have taken.’
And I wept and said,

‘thank you.  I understand.’

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Compensation. . .

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There comes a time when even the simplest body language speaks to one and one has to listen.  It is not an easy thing to do, this confrontation, but it requires some thought.  It is easy to anger, but a dumb thing to do.  And I try hard not to be dumb.  But looking with an attitude of gratitude, I have nothing but awe to grant to this body that has served me so well.

Spending almost a year and a half when I was 10-12 years old in a sanatorium with a spinal problem  had me on a curved steel Bradford frame on my back for most of that time.  Children were kept immobile in straight jackets on these frames because that was how they treated chronic bone problems before antibiotics.   When I was discharged my mother asked the doctor would I be able to have children and the doctor with exasperation I remember saying madam be grateful your daughter is walking.  And walk I did, with difficulty and able to have three wonderful children but also to fall in love with my beautiful Earth and take care of the small plot of land for almost a half century.  I took my commitments seriously and found virtue in labor and beauty in the doing of it.

So struggling with a continuing spinal and cervical stenosis coupled with a spastic heart that went into cardiac arrest twice have made things more difficult as I age.  I learn new things and there will be new ways of doing things.   My hours over the worktable lessen but I am grateful for the ways I can contribute to maintenance of our home that keep me mobile.   My love of learning has continued to this late date and though my hands are shaky and my body and eye coordination lessens by the day I still do the things I love best.

My eye/hand coordination is not good but I learned this past week how to use the computer to print on fabric and I will be printing my poetry with a new idea in mind.  The example I put before you.

For one  who misses the old exuberance of my feet hitting the floor as my eyes open,  the change to a more sedentary beginning of the day means that my body balks.  The Lazy Boy chair beckons more often and I am inclined to rest my eyes, (so to speak).  Naps are what the family calls them.  Compensation is what Emerson called the balance of Life, God,  or Spirit.  He calls it the duality in life.  For everything you lose,  you gain a something else.  There is an ancient maxim that says that the dice of God are always loaded.  It may seem that there is an imbalance,  but the balance is there.  It must be so or the Universes would have long ago ceased to be.  And I continue with those things that moth and rust do not destroy.

I forgot that I had written In Closing Times this past summer.  I find it to have great meaning now.

In The Closing Times

Often there comes a time
to ponder great gifts
when a life has been lived diligently
for them to come forth. . . .

Yet oftentimes they come
in the closing times
when energy fails us
and the eyes dim. . . .

But no harm done,
for magnificent things
instead were accomplished
with greater meaning

and everlasting life.

 

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When The Real Money Is Counted. . . .

20150628_123339(1)The Teacher Continues. . . .

When it comes to memory,  how do we separate what is currently ours?  Yet the question should be, what is not ours when we are part of humankind?  What can we separate from since we do not know what it is we have participated in since time began?

Have we lived before?  What is called reincarnation can also be memory banks filled to overflowing.  Yet are there not new souls on this planet who do not have practiced ways of behaving that can only be the result of centuries of living?

Can we say we have lived before when we fumble much in elemental situations? If we are asking these questions, it means the footwork has already been done to bring us to this place.  And since talk shows and self help books have people eager to speak,  what can be brought forth? 

Can this incarnation be one of many?  Can we not be walking in many worlds relying only on custom for this one?  For some, one answer is sufficient.  And for others, if thoroughly understood,  would have worlds spinning into oblivion. 

There are those who have been open to such a degree that worlds have impinged uncalled for.  Understanding can only come when there is a frame of reference to assimilate the information.  There is no mind that can understand everything.  All expressions are needed in every world to begin to uncover the Essence of the Spirit that rules and loves.

In the frame of reference that use the word God in its religious life or spiritual life,  everyone and everything is allowed to express the many faces of God.  There is no mind that completely understands nor completely accepts  all the expressions of Being.  Whether in this world we inhabit or in worlds we give space to in thought.

The Why Of Mine

In me are my mother’s memories.
She still lives with all
of the memories in her and many in me.
Her anguish for rights violated
is felt in me . . . .gut feeling overriding
injustices in my life.

Her family, long dead, live in her
and in me, commingling.
I do not know their faces,
but one day I will wander into
a Memory Bank and withdraw my assets
to settle debits and I will know
for whom I do this.

In me, my father nods his head
and studies grasses neatly clipped
to a measured stance.
His dragging feet refuse to note
the hands on my clock as they did on his.
In me, his glance becomes
a studied look ferreting out a truth
in a lie,  only to be numbed by indecision.

And my eyes hold others’ eyes,
when they meet mine so I can
uncover their treasures.
In me, the textures of my brothers
are bolts of fabric laid straight
and bias to life.

I note the patterns and the places
that fit me me and those that cannot.
The places we meet are enough for now.
In me my sister’s wrath
lays bare my own.
Altogether we meet in several times
but in her  our father roams,

looking for himself in her labor
and in her, our mother stirs derision
concerning old memories kept alive
by today’s unresolves.
I have children who have children,
strengthened by others’ memories
and shaken by habits long thought
to be dead.

Wondrous to see the Refiner’s fire
culling the wooden nickels
crowding the silver and gold
in the Memory Bank.

One day the real money will be counted.

 

 

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

 

 

 

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Memories With No Putting Place. . .

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The Teacher Speaks. . . .what exactly is memory?  Except long things outstanding, which in the course of living, become shorthand of a sort.  It would appear that memories should not encroach on one,  especially when they are not part of the current life.  But since we take on the body of choice, then we also take on the long list of grievances as well as victories of the heredity.  And since we talk of heredity as the line of choice, then we must also be prepared for those untoward things that crop up within every family line.

(I will be doing a series of posts on memory.  The above was the beginning of this scribe’s dictation on Memory and I am beginning with the poem Circa. . . 1840  to show how my poetry over the years proved  to be the example of how much of life is remembering or learning for the first time but all  are ways of obtaining information.  I hope to insert questions in my readers’ thinking and do feel free to comment.  Life is a Process. )

Circa:  1840

She could say in reverent tone, I love you.
I polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The children came, one by one.
She loved them, each and everyone.
They were good.  She said,  I love you.
I’ve borne you sons and
taught them how to pray.
I’ve polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The sons grew up and one by one
they went away.  He never knew why.
He never knew that they too, said,
I’ve fed the chicks and bedded the calves
and got a perfect score in sums.
While their hearts fairly burst,
do we please thee?

He accepted the polished hearth,
the risen bread, the handsome sons
who tried so hard to please
as that which was his due.

One day the hearth no longer shone,
no longer was the bread set to rise,
no handsome sons to plead
with eyes that tore her heart apart.

‘You do not love me!’ he angrily shouted.
Wearily she turned away.
Did you not see the polished hearth,
the bread set to rise,
the sons who tried so hard to please

and love that died?’

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