Archive | February, 2018

Kindergarten. . .

To Play the Child. . .

For whatever is not made peace with, will piece the person.  It will break them into a million parts, never knowing it can be peaced, nor seeing how they contribute to it all, will leave the adult body still playing the child.

When one operates from a child’s reference point, one does not see one’s contribution to a problem.  And there is nothing within a closed memory that would make us accept responsibility if we are not equal.  It is a mess but how truly remarkable for the protection of the individual .

But how god-awful for those around.

 

 

Kindergarten. . . .

It is kindergarten
this place of play that tells us
that we are just boys
and girls and everyone
wants us to be happy.

And we vow again
like the tinker bell that
we play the girl at heart
and like the peter pan
we will not grow up.

And we are adored
to be just as we are.
Never growing up to do
those things of pain we see.
Never growing up
because to grow up means
to grow old and hurts not only bodies
but feelings we drown in.
There is no one to save us so
to grow old means we die.

We all know that song, don’t we?
There is no fun like ours
when we stay young to play
with the wind in our hair and
someone pushing the swings higher and higher.

Nothing is expected then, is there?
Everyday is a day to play.
And if we are lucky we will die
in our sleep and never have to think.

Where is the fault in that?

0

The Bread Knows. . . .

Some days. . .

are a wipe out.  Only to do what one can.  The Rabbi Teacher asked only one thing.  ‘Feed the children.’  Sometimes the simplest command is shrouded by a complex system of thought.  Think so?

The Bread Knows the Feel of my Hands. . .

I know the dust of the flower
as the bees skin the petals
and suck the juices off their spines. . .

I know the touch of your hand
on the shoulder of my tunic
as I bend to kiss
the child of our union. . .

And know, however much I know,
the feel of the heart
beating against mine and know
to whom it belongs. . .

I knead with no passion
but stir lovingly into
a loaf of wonder. . .
crisp to the knife blade
it will be as it slices. . .

It is with love
I fold the dough onto itself
and it melds selflessly
into a loaf. . .

knowing all the while
the touch of my hand
with love caters
to our natural heritage. . .

both of us part of All That Is, life itself.

0

Earth Held Hostage. . .

Time Now To Grow Up. . .

There are times that call men to action and this is one of them.  It is time to give way to new ideas  that have been incubating for a long time within the hearts and minds of those given to thought.  We are long delayed in giving space to different kinds of consciousness.  Long delayed in giving space to those whose minds and physical brains have doors open to places the average person does not.

The quiet mind is a comfort zone for most.  The comfort being in the place where the meals are hot and the days fall into a pattern that give little leeway for the eventful to happen unless taken into hands of those of ill intent.

Long past the time now we have gone expecting man to become zealous in his attitude to bring peace and  growth to those of us on our Earth.  The human is not only physical but is divine.  The  human had his beginning with the stars and is intent on claiming this innate knowledge.

With every event that comes to life in the human sphere seems to bring calamity in large doses.  Wars are taken as common within the boundaries of the race that prolongs the anguish of ancients.  And little reason lies behind the events except giving action to desires that look to give meaning to the life that has little in it.

Long has man looked for reason to add adventure to his day.  And leaving the children and spouses behind to do so in the names of work or patriotism or to hunt seemed reason enough.  We take to task these reasons.  We take to task the lazy minds that look for physical adventure and not the considerate thoughtful work to give life meaning.  Why the need to be entertained than for minds to look for answers that would give meaning to the purpose of life?

Long has man preferred to fight wars over boundaries instead of looking to what unites the human race.  Instead of looking to what unites the spirit in manner to bind one to another.  Is it so boring for  man to look to what will prolong and give impetus to the progression of humankind?  Is there so little love between man that there is no common ground?

From a cosmic view, other worlds must look to see what they can invest in the dailyness to spur man on to promote this planet to growth and progress.  We look to see where we can inject some adrenalin to make the intensity work with fervor.

It is time long gone that the one god, the one world, the one man, the one consciousness be held onto with such religious fervor.  It is time to expand the thinking to include the divine within each human giving access to the spiritual energy and psychic fulfillment which permeates and upholds the universe and universes.  It makes for accountability of the each in his life with the knowledge that names are attached to actions that will demand restitution.

For too long man has reclined in his comforts with the god he created who will forgive and forget all his transgressions.  That with forgiveness because his beginning was less than ideal and the burden was a heavy one to carry that he would be forgiven whatever transgressions he committed.  The news now is that names are attached to these errors in judgments and these errors must be accounted for.

Misdemeanors are different than sins.  Sins are different than psychological impairments.  And impairments of judgments are still not dismissed but lessons must be learned so that progression in human lives will not be held in abeyance but will have  time for full potential.

Babies born are wondering why they are in kindergarten when they have knowledge of worlds in attendance to the great god of wonder that is the rolling thunder of the universe.  Why they are not part of the action that rules other worlds with motion and movement toward great progress.  But are lost in the illusion of slow motion that seems to immerse the adults in such pleasures.  They come to us as twigs already bent with a history ready to teach and we step on their heads.

We are in the midst of worlds looking at this planet and wondering the outcome of its wondrous elements.  It should have been held as graduation for souls becoming stars again.  Instead it is held as the playground of souls who have learned the sophistication of its accoutrements and given them a place to play forever.

Time is now that changes will be evident.  Time is now that much will be demanded.  And the young whose memories now of the violence that has taken their friends and innocence will demand restitution and behavior that comes with adulthood.

The children shall lead us.  And force the children in adult bodies to grow up and let loose  the behaviors that have kept this beautiful planet hostage.  It is time and the children shall lead because they have memory.  Of the worlds they have come from and where they exhibited behavior that showed accountability.

It is time for all of us to grow up.

3

The Snow May Blind Us. . .

This poem is one in the Psalms of Love.  The book is available now in Kindle  and is in process also,  almost ready for print in paper back on Amazon.com.  In the midst of this winter,  I wanted to share my love for this season and will always love it especially.  The most impressive part of my life has been winter,  possibly because it allowed time for things of Spirit.  Without the pressing of the must do’s of good weather,  winter has always allowed time to stand still.  It has allowed breathing space for feelings to take form.  Wood fires,  good books and loving arms.  They are worth remembering forever.

 

 

 

The Snow May Blind Us. . .

My feet are walking
into dusk and soon I will feel night
pulling at my ankles.
I will feel it creep about my knees
and like fingers clutching
the turned down blanket
and drawing it close to lay its warmth
on shivering shoulders.
I will pull up the night
to cover solid state illusions
and in the dream of the dreamer,
humble them.

Enough for the morrow
to make believe to believe,
to pretend to pretend
that the water will not
hold my walking frame
and my belief will not
move the mountain.

We will continue to share
a world of make believe
and in that world, the play onstage
will be the real thing
and the house we build
will shield us from the elements.
Snow my blind us,
may pile itself at our door
and the door may never open again.

But within,
the love we know
has tentacles that chase
illusive worlds into being
and as we created
this house of passion,
we will again gain space

for a love such as ours.

0

Psalms of Love. . .

This is the day I have long  awaited.  It is the day I can say to my family and friends that the book called Psalms of Love is available on Amazon.  The Kindle is available now and within a few days,  the paper back will be available if not already.  It has been incubating for all of my life it seems but with me and my philosophy,  it happened yesterday.

It could not be without my family.  John and Lori provide a wonderful home for me  with an awesome workroom without added pressures aging cannot handle nicely. Tresy, (Joe III) has formatted and done all the fine tooth combing that publishing requires and soothed my worries about being an irritation.  And Claudia has again done her talent justice by her fine art in the midst of  life intervening.   All done while their lives continued with work and upheaval of construction, moving, changing addresses and Emma E. making her debut in the midst of the moving weekend for her parents.  With civil liberties enhanced,  chaos abated, Emma E. still came home to loving arms.

Psalms of Love readers will question the poetry according to what they hold as their philosophy or belief or their religion.  Others will simply want to know what I smoke.  I will have to say as those in the past have said,  we live our reality. The habits of our days create the world we work at.  When it is said that by their fruits you shall know them, it would be wise if we take that maxim to heart.

Because it is so.  Those who have known me, or have  been following my blog for the last seven years,  know that I speak my truth.  When I said I crashed the gates of heaven,  it is so, metaphysically speaking.  Otherwise life for me would have been impossibly difficult.

We come into the world as the twig already bent.  There are those who wish to believe that we are a clean slate, but a history we already are.  Some of us remember our history and others will say we have a vivid imagination.  All it takes is to listen to the newborn as they master the language they are born into.  They introduce a vivid history.  The book no one ever reads but refers to with the question in the vernacular,  what’s it all about Alfie,  should ask the newborn as the good book says.

I truly hope that in reading this book of poetry, Psalms of Love,   sweeping across your heart will be an awakening that you too are known.  And with the journey begun, you will claim and be claimed.  To what will be your surprise.

I am grateful that we are not abandoned.  I am one of the fortunate ones knowing this.  It has been with this support I have been a contribution instead of an impediment to life.  My life drove me to study the why of man and led me to the why of who I am.  A life of independent study is not lightly chosen.  The rewards are seldom tangible but with hindsight, priceless.  No dictionary on this Earth has words to tell what it is to be known.  And to be of account.  The gift is matchless.

 

illustrated by
Claudia Pontarelli-Hallissey

2

Embrace The Differences. . . .

 

Journal entry March 12, 1990. . . . .

I can remember thinking and finally saying out loud though I happened to be in the basement, I could tell who came in from outdoors by what swept over me.  It could have been their vibes or their energy blanket or it could have been something else that I filed into my brain since time began.

But I would know before they took a step in just who it was; even as a child I knew when my brothers or sister or parents came in.  It was only when our children were born that I realized that not all people were this way.  When I met someone, sometimes for the first time, sweeping over me would be the feeling of them.  I learned I was reacting to their emotional climate.

It is traumatic for the young child, the sensitive one, who complains of a stomach ache at the thought of school, to be away from the safe environs of home,  afraid of being laughed at or throwing up, or the washroom being too far.  How to explain this to parents?  They cannot and unless there is a divergent path taken, they will simply say  they have stomach problems and spend time in the bathroom.   Never realizing they have become the emotional pit stop for the world’s ills.

Sometimes the sensitive one must simply vacate the room to protect himself from the slings of emotional flagrancy. They have to leave when emotions rampage or they will throw up. There is seldom a someone who understands to protect the child or the child in the adult body. There is no protection for others’ emotions crashing onto them.  Even contained violent emotions can be deadly to the vulnerable.

The triggers for these occasions can be anything.  When I was a child in grade school the sound of a siren going by would find me running home from school certain that calamity had befallen my family.  Certain I was my mother would be dead or the house burned to the ground.

We were not spawned in a ditch.  We are a holy beginning.  We were before we are and we have a history.  We are a history.

To the one who said I draw conclusions all over the place  (it was not meant as a compliment)  and make connections no one else does,  I say to see all life connected is what Ancients did.  And I do this here and now because of those who cavort on Olympus.  But they worked their days on Earth as I now work mine.

(I was almost Sixty when the above was written.  I am now almost Ninety.  After years of therapy to accept the fact that my head was different but not mentally ill,  the doctors and I formed relationships that supported me.  I learned that there are those like me who are out of place in a world that has difficulty with ideals that work elsewhere.  And the Elsewhere has many worlds.  We embrace to different degrees values that can work here but at a very high cost.  If we are fortunate our families gather to protect what soon becomes the isolated child.  What is not realized is that  mavericks contribute in ways necessary for human progress but not noted until they are absent.  Embrace the obstinate child.  They chose you as parents for special reasons.)

 

Photo by John Stanley Hallissey

1

The Gates of Heaven. . . .

 

When I Crashed The Gates. . .

You ask. . . .
 How do you go to your knees
and with tears bend
and lift your head and
to whom or to what?

I say. . . .
To a loving, wholly, holy
Spirit that supports me
with an embrace I know. . . .

You say. . . .
A verb cannot do that. . .
rolling thunder cannot,
only. . . .

I say. . .
Only a heart
that knows mine and
what I say in answer
to what I hear and know. . .

and continue. . .
only in obeisance
to what we both want
for beloveds, for Beings
throughout all life. . . .

You say. . .
 how do you get to that place?

I say. . . .
I worked to remember
from where I came
and what I knew. . . .
It has taken my life
and the cost has been dear. . . .

You ask. . . .
Was it worth it?

I say
I am here to write this.
They rescued me when I crashed the gates.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

0

Ripped, Severed, Broken. . . .

Times Such As These. . .

I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about
unattended.

Fearful that pieces of my heart
may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leave us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to convey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?

Or the parents whose hearts
were transplanted
when word came that
these unspent stars were already
breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage
have not learned.
To resort to arms

means death in any country.

3

Lean on Me. . . .

Lean On Me. . .

Lean, love, lean on me
and rest your tired heart.
Let me rescue you out of a dream
and allow you to awaken in a world of choice.

Bend to me, as the willow to the wand,
as the lily grips the water to float.
I have time enough and arms
strong enough to grant you rest.

 

Lean on me, love, lean on me.
Press your tired mind onto mine
while we give to each other
what we sorely need.

It is only a breath of a moment
that separates us
and but a breath
that holds us apart.

Come, lean for now.

 

(this Valentine’s Day with much love, Veronica (( from
the upcoming Psalms of Love,  ))

1

Welcome Home, Emma E. . .

Welcome Home,  Emma E. . .

I am by nature not a mover, but a thinker.  I think a lot and have been muchly criticized for it. By people saying I read too much into life.  Mostly by people who never had a clue.  If my friend Emerson is to be taken as an authority, then to think is to act.  The body may slow as is the case of aging, but Spirit thinks itself a perpetual 35, which is a necessary preparation for ongoing life, here and elsewhere.

Awards may not hang on the walls, but many hang on the heart.  One came this day to tell me that my repetitive lectures bear fruit because of the evidence in this poignant photo.  Emma E. this newly minted daughter came home to arms that already know the shape of her heart.  They will hammock and support her and catch her for as long as there will be need.

Her father knew his father’s arms when he came new to this world, so the new father with tenderness remembered.  The emanating love in this photograph far surpasses anything this world could award.  It is priceless.

The snow covers the grasses on this very cold day and is marred by the traffic in the streets.  Soon its pristine purity will carry the dark residue of its activity.  Once I kept shutters closed to the streets and opened them to the back yard where there was life I could understand and cope with.

There were birds at the feeder, arguing still, evergreens growing in trust that life is ever new each day, demanding our very best with the promise that life is ever good.

Welcome home Emma E.  It is enough to know at this time that life is ever good.  You chose well.  There is love in abundance.  You have rekindled in these harshest of times, my zest for ongoing life.  You are a fresh dawn for eternity.  Welcome home.  I will always love you.

 

8

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes