Archive | March, 2016

It Makes Little Difference. . . .

 

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Excerpt from a journal entry of July 20, 1981. . . .

I am responsible for who I am.  The responsibility cannot be assumed by an other.  I may be an alien in this world, but this world, this beautiful world is not an alien place.  It is here to sustain and nourish and be here for me.  I created my reality.  How can I say without appearing to be out of my mind that Jesus knew of what he spoke and that the veil can and will be lifted or torn away and you too will see and hear?  That revelation was not concluded with the bible and is an ongoing thing with the individual. . . .

(The following poem was written in February of this year, 35 years after the entry.  It was an awesome, heart rending experience for me in the midst of a wood of Spanish Oaks with their windswept moss.  I could not be prepared for what was outside my frame of thought at the time.  The surprise of it all?  That I stood and did not go into cardiac arrest.  And did not babble incoherently. This poem was a Given.  Taken down as I heard it with my inner hearing.   The result?  The serenity.  Just the serenity.  With my heartfelt Thank You.)

It Makes Little Difference

It makes little difference
the road one takes to master this.
For to get to where you are,
the way makes no matter
but the destination
is what leaves its mark.

Centuries on the road
brought this to you, this awesome view
that struck your heart to shatter it.
You went down on knees too stiff
to note the pain but surely the heavens knew
the custom derived from pain.

We cherish the journeyer, the traveler,
the one who found no words to match
the awestruck heart.
It makes little matter for what touched home
in the trunks of the trees, in the music of the wind
rising to the acappella;  rising, still rising,
to the onrushing tears.

We are home.  We are home
and nothing else matters,
other than we set the bar for others to cross.
They will, but not until
they know that the pursuit

begins in the heart. . . and ends there.

 

Painting by Claudia Hallissey

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Think It Through. . . .

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Men may live lives of quiet desperation but is it not better to punch out the heavens and settle the fight?

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Some people prefer to sit on hot rocks.

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The path for the journey home is such a steep and narrow one that the intensity of the heart is calibrated.

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There is Grace in the wait.  But only after the knock out.

                                                                             *****

One can circle the world many times but be no nearer to one’s final destination that what is taken by the first step inward.

                                                                             *****

The rock of Gibraltar does withstand the chipping away at it but only to a point.

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There is an art to waiting.  It is an art form and once learned, a great privacy maker and comfort.

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Moments of waiting allow one to disconnect from a cacophonous world and center in on the inner voice intent on self preservation.  Guilt arises when something as prosaic as waiting in line can be so delicious as to be judged sinful.

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To have a sense of the past, a hold on the future and an immersion in the present should be a prerequisite for life.

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As we stretch to pour the milk out of the pitcher we are blind to the fact that it is only out of abundance that we continue to pour.

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We are laughed out of the curriculum when our search involves basic origins and we find some answers.

photo by
Stanley Rybacki

 

 

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Rolling Thunder. . .

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Back in the ‘70s when I awakened with notes written during the night  with the words,  ‘the past is still happening, the  future has already happened and here in the Now we race to catch up with it’ I barely understood what the words meant.   It was only in the past year I learned of the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous and as I approach 85 years,  it is only now that I know this is how I have lived my life.  It would have been a support of a huge kind to have had Religion or Medicine or Science as a help.  Not an easy way to make the journey,  but at birth there was already a blueprint drawn that determined my direction.  I stayed the route with its  heartbreak and joys and have found a serenity that answers my deepest questions.  In the poem Rolling Thunder I flex past and present and future tenses to show an unrolling of lifetimes that merge one with the Other.  To me it most clearly states how it is all the eternal now.  Life is everlasting and the sunrise is the suggestion of my youngest and sunrise indeed,  sparks our lives in all ways.

Rolling Thunder. . .  

from what was a formless start,
were pieces sent scattering
into a nothingness. . .

Our consciousness spoke
one to the other and the thoughts
formed a place ready to hold our dreams.
We then broke off pieces of who we are and
went in search of meaning. . .

For sport, for something to do to fill ourselves,
for then we came to that place where thought
demanded a something to hold.
It was called Manifest.

This thought was like rolling thunder
with the threat of storm.  It was filled with power.
That power engulfed the whole of us
and we emerged.

We grew and contributed to this great turbulence
and life took on a beauty which ennobled us
as creatures of this space now forming worlds at once.

In the center we knew our sense of power,
like thunder rolling and even now continues
its unrolling of  events from our lives and dreams
and as it all unfolds it becomes part
of an Other’s dream.

The dreams are dreamed and pieces spark Others’ dreams
into an unrolling of the Great God’s Becoming.

It is with this understanding that the why and how has
neither a beginning nor an ending but is everlasting.

We always were soul stuffs and
were known by one name.
And when our thoughts grew with power
we came into Being and are known by one name again.
It is Creation we are involved with.

And we light up with surprise every time.

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

 

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The Wall Of Night. . .

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Nothing To See. . .

You dropped a kiss
on the top of my head
as you headed out the door.

I wanted to hold onto
what the night had brought
and the morning promised. . .

Too late, I think,
another chance missed,
to gather to ourselves

what time would bring
in another lifetime with
unwelcome surprises.

And with no knowledge ever
of how it all came to be. . .
How could you not see

what was written indelibly
on the wall of night?
I know,  I know.

There was nothing to see.  Nothing.

photo by John Holmes

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Sweet The Arrival. . .

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The Necessary Journey

Breath was taken as wind
whipped itself to a literal frenzy
and the waters ripped
the edges of shore.

The moss flew at right angles
from the branches of the Spanish Oaks. . .
so beautiful the eyes
could only tear with awe.

The girth of the trees no tape could measure.
They bowed with the weight of centuries.
How else to say that the need to know
was brought home, except

to drop the knees and fret the cold ground.
The road did not matter anymore
nor the bulrushes scythed
to make room for foot to transgress.

Small difference the way or means
but necessary the journey.
So sweet the arrival.
But why we lost the knowledge

that was ours to begin with and why
the unbelief in who we were?
Who stole our basic goodness,
stripped our decency?

They who took advantage of our innocence
and we who did not question will be held accountable.

photo by John Hallissey

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Toward Greater Life. . . .

20150331_142207Come Dance. . .

As children we are taught that unless it can be touched, or tasted, or weighed or measured in some way and above all, tested in a laboratory,  then it isn’t real; it is imagination.  And yet to dismiss the emotion that has our heart and mind expanding  to give us a larger view of a reality that physical life does not include, is to cheat ourselves.  It is this expanded view that shapes our lives to become better in ways that cannot be measured but can be seen and felt and integrated.   To say that a glimpse has been given, or the veil has shifted,  is to say there is a larger reality in which we participate  that the physical world cannot include.  It cannot because it is a reality with different accents in a language to be understood by the who I AM.  And that I AM or ME is the divine self within.  This divine self is what allows us to become one with all of life, the visible and the invisible. It is our door to a larger reality.   It is what allows me to blend with the where of where I am and hear your angst in the unspoken pause in our silent conversation.  We must remember that the word imagination comes from the word image and image has an icon in memory. And even the toddler in today’s world knows his icons.

 

Toward Greater Life

The heart searches parameters
for openings unto worlds
not torn by those intent
on limiting knowledge. . .

always searching
for those to willingly embrace
the differences challenging
the hesitant heart. . .

We look toward the union
of heart and mind
with the litigious veins
of knowledge, pushing like sludge
thickly through rock. . .

eager to consign edges
toward greater life. . .
knowing always the
least demanding would be
the most sought for.
Even the tardy would give
evolution a jump start.

Never insulting the slower envoy,
always grateful for the god participants,
the larger reality scoops forever
the narrow focus. . .

giving eternity’s starters new life and hope.

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I Am The Tree. . . .

DSC_1207I Am The Tree. . .

In man’s history, there was a time when his consciousness with Nature melded.  Man did not look upon Nature as object to be observed, outside of himself,  but was at one with it.  It would be saying ‘I am the breath that blows through the trees and wind we am’ and  ‘man is sitting in the shade of the tree that he is.’  Man’s consciousness blended easily with Nature’s because of mutual perspective and love.  It was only when man pursued different paths that his perspective changed and he began to objectify things outside of himself and objectified himself.   It was a long process but he burglarized his own house.    By taking or shaking himself loose from his grounding,  he lost much and man then had to learn to communicate what before was emotional and tactile and needed no spoken language.

Over the years,  in my independent study program,  I wrote much from a depth I barely understood.  As I read over my work of early years and see where the road has taken me,  there is a knowledge inborn that has directed me.  I read now with understanding and have explanations that I did not have the courage nor the vocabulary to explain.  In revisiting a book by Jane Roberts,  like visiting an old friend,  I was prompted to search out the following poem,  written too many years ago to count.  Only to find that its explanation would now be found in a quantum physics book in libraries.  The poem explains my connection with our beautiful planet and the history from which we come.  Pause a moment to pursue it.

I Am The Tree

I am the tree.  My arms are haven for life
nestling in the curvature of my spine.
My leaves filter the sun and allow
cool breath to creatures needing relief
from sun too long hot.

I nourish the ground with leaves falling
and fermenting and present the world
to my constituents with my needles
during the hard cold.  I grace the landscape
and ease tired eyes too long squinting.

I am the stones of the Earth.
Beneath me I protect life finding a home
in the dampness for which they were made.
I carry vestiges of all life in my veins
to be read by eyes destined to see them.

I am the Earth, the planet, housing dreams
designed by man, elusive and real,
fragile yet strong.  I bring forth life
hidden in the conforms of my arms,
spaced in the reality of  mind
and spilling from my heart.

I am the all that is.

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There Are No Words. . . .

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There Are No Words

There are no words
in this limiting lexicon
to tell of the place
where heart proceeds
to the precipice to touch
the face of eternity.

To tell of the unsteady stance
ready to drop the knees
at the altar of worlds
begging for recognition.

This they say, these giant oaks
in their flowing manes of moss,
straight out in glory
to the Great God.

This, they say, is the veil
that I tore away
to glimpse, simply glimpse
the other side
from where I stand.

No need ever to remember
how I arrived,
through bulrushes and
septic pools of detritus
to find this oasis
in a dry desert of mind.

Simply to arrive,
unbalanced on quivering legs,
at this great altar,
too late, but never too soon. . .

always on time.

photo by
John Hallissey

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The Night Before We Put Beau Down. . .

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As family members separate to find their independence,  or to find work in a mobile society,  the premises from which these souls wander still requires a caretaker.  We found in our domesticated animals an adaptability to our need for companionship  when these members left.   These sweet creatures become part of the family.  For those who knew us when Beau and his buddy walked about town,  it is with a grateful heart I say thank you to him who was part of our family for over a dozen years.  This is for you, Beau,  salut!

The Night Before We Put Beau Down. . .

He never betrayed
a belief system,
nor a confidence,
nor a value held tightly.

Yet today I see his legs
outstretched, uncomplaining
but with a distant look
not focused on me.

He has been leaning
a lot on me.
He speaks a language
signaling a departure
to which I have agreed.

It is time.
Body functions once dependable
now are a puzzlement
and my inabilities
loom as large as his.

We have been saying our goodbyes.
Like his predecessor,
he chose me by sitting
wet and sloppy on my foot.

Now I hold his years
of memories tenderly and
am grateful our lives were made
more compassionate and loving
by his obvious joy in our presence.

By loving us he made us all better people.

 

photo by
Joseph Hallissey Sr.

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Sweet Morpheus. . .

In rIMG_0252_2eading today’s post of Maria Wulf’s   fullmoonfiberart.com  she talked of dreams and how one does not question the dream nor truly its significance.  Or one’s presence in it.  It brought to mind my own questions during my life’s journey at about the same age as Maria and a poem I have not thought of in years.  Only one of the many questions but it brought up a smile thinking that we all are much more similar,  one to the other,  than we are different.  I wish we as a world would learn this important maxim.  We could prove to be helpful to one another.  Imagine that!

Sweet Morpheus

Ah, sweet Morpheus,
I succumb to you as a babe
to its mother’s breast
and find in you a reality
that does not dispossess.

I walk through castles,
intermittently lost and found.
I am absorbed into a role
playing the part to perfection.
Words are given and mouthed
with a depth that defies understanding.

I move in sequence,
first here, then there,
placed by unseen forces.
Now walking, now running,
intent only on the play’s performance.
Direction matters not
nor the dream’s significance.
Reality only intensifies
the immediate action
in its precision.

Now fluid in movement, I race,
grateful as a young gazelle,
intent on bounding miles.
Always closer, never quite grasping,
the mind’s chameleon concepts.

Now congealing lethargy
finds me in the dream’s spent passion.
Evicted once again
and pushed back to the realities,
nay illusion,
from which I had escaped.
Hungering, I prod
the mind unsuccessfully,
willing myself into the somnolence
from which the dream took form.

Sufficient in its designated duration,
the dream eludes my persistent pursuit.
Elusive, challenging, tempting,
always wondering why in sleep
I question not the dream’s reality

nor mine.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

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