Archive | June, 2018

With Full Knowledge of the Song. . . .

The Last Bird Sings. . .

They said the pressures were such
that would have put a pipe fitter
under the foundation. . .

I, naive, thought when I heard
that she would not know
she was between waxed sheets
under a hot iron thought
they talked of you. . .

And I, obviously impaired of intelligence,
continued to listen to your tales
of woe and wondered
how you kept your sanity. . .

How did you do it. . .
and still found the joy in the antics
of people devoid of reason?

Aahhh, that is the secret
of vengeance is mine
saith the Lord. . . .

I will put joy, He said, in the laughter
of her who comes to your door. . .
and exuberance in the attitude of you
whom I call on to work in the vineyards,
you, whose body cannot
tolerate the taste of the vine. . . .

And I will put the song
in The Last Bird who will have

full knowledge of the song he sings. . . .

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

((I have some copies yet of The Last Bird Sings.  If you are interested, contact me.))

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We Are Heaven’s Reflection. . . are we proud?. . .

My readers are the most intelligent of the top one percent of the reading public. They teach by their comments all the time.  Some of them wish not to be quoted which I respect and cherish also those who comment publicly.  I grasp with eagerness what they say.

One said there are places I would not be allowed to voice my thoughts or concerns.  I have lived my almost my entire life being cautioned as I left the house about what I say.  I had no intent but to do good.  So why?

It became a constant worry and dampened my enthusiasm, so I seldom spoke in public.  A well placed innocuous question kept whoever was speaking,  holding the floor,  so the public was spared my stuttering.

Another reader commented on my hero’s journey with much sensitivity that it was difficult at best and unbearable at its worst. Only when one is knowledgeable can one surmise this.  They teach me from experience with coping when life blind sided them with balls thrown from left field,  with chronic illnesses and pain and insensitive cruelties to their psyches.  These are people of conscience.

I began journaling because there was no one to talk to.  No one was interested in subjects I sweated.  What transpired in my entries is worth further explanation at another time.  Now I simply touch base with the overriding problem that arose when I was ten in 1941 and has since consumed my life and caused relationships to freeze.

Born with an open head and memory alive, any question I asked was the wrong question.   Amid the daily occurrences were the philosophy questions that plagued me.    Like the one when I was ten and silenced many times, where was the cosmic intervention by this god who we were taught watched our every move so that we wouldn’t embarrass our parents and strike us dead?  Were not 6 million reasons enough reasons in war for cosmic intervention?

I was ten and asked where were the smart, important men in this world, where were the church’s leaders,  who knew important things and were powerful enough to make the world run but could not stop Hitler’s war?   Where was this god of my parents?

It is a long journey to integrate thought, discard painful, useless dogma taught under penalty of death and still find my beloved planet reason to keep breathing.  But only as we emerge from this life where we wear human skin, can we even see the immanent god is the power within.

With a world of pacifists, artists, artisans, we see a world of sensitive and gentle souls who will forever wilt in the confrontation of a peoples equipped with weapons and the ability to arm the dark side of humanity with the power of thought.

It is what we see being done by the elected with a buffoonery that verges on the hysterical.  It is a dangerous specimen of humanity.

This is my thinking.  I drown in my tears when I think of the immense love that holds this Universe afloat.  Free will is free will.  And I do not like to think that the god within has not evolved further than the human who houses him.

As above, so below was the dicta when Christianity’s mentor stood on the rock.   We are heaven’s reflection.  Are we proud?

 

Photo a gift given by Jon Katz of BedlamFarm.com
Photo framed by my granddaughter Jessica Hallissey

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The Cut Of The Cloth. . . .

 

Several years ago I wrote that an elderly once said to me people only know what you tell them.  My reaction was a gasp! because she believed that.   There was no exposure to people more knowledgeable or more observant than she.  Although she would adamantly vow her God knew everything and nothing was forever hidden.

Such was her focus.  And many can relate to this thinking.   Huddled with their own preferred prejudices and religious dogmas which forbid dabbling with so called devilish dervishes, much was undisclosed.

With many who think that minds are private and secrets can be bought with hush money, there are still those who cannot fathom the innocent bystander upon whose head thoughts settle unannounced.

These are the souls who take to the woods and live out lives in solitude, or with the natural world. Or simply close the shutters.   People cause fatigue to these innocents who carry information that has no putting place in their lives.  Besides, they spook people out.   Oh yes, they do.

They become vaults of knowledge with nowhere to dispense it.  People will say about them, ‘never knew them other than just in passing.  Kept pretty much solitary.’

I have written poetry about subjects like the above and am surprised when I come across the poetry years apart.  But interesting are the perspectives and sometimes I find they change little.  Many Truths was written in 1986. . . .and Overheard was in an involved work of last week.

Many Truths. . .                                               

I tell you true,
if my eye caught it,
a picture has already
been taken of it.

If I know something
I can tell you true,
the neighbor down the street
or the unknown one
around the corner,
knows of it also.

If my ear has caught your cry,
or the deception in your words,
the heavens have heard the cry
and the deception, however layered,
in time is betrayed by you.

If my song is sung,
the heavens and my god
have heard the melody
and whipped the wind
and carried the joy or sorrow
to its Source.

It has always been so
and this I tell you true.
The difference?

I, now, know it.

November, 1986

Overheard. . .

I hear them say. . .
I cannot follow
what she says all the time. . .

And you say. . .
I don’t either all the time,
so don’t blame yourself. . .

But then I hear. . .
But she says things I know are true
and I think I only
could know them. . .

And you say. . .
that is why she can say
what only you know to be true,
because she has been
to all these places
we don’t understand.

And you say. . .
I can only wonder how long
it took all those door

to open for her. . . .

June, 2018

 

 

 

 

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Come To The Table. . . you are invited. . . .

 

Come To The Table To Share. . . .

Several years ago a loved one said to me you take such giant steps and expect others to follow you and we just cannot!  This was a surprise to me because everyone seemed yards beyond me and I was trying desperately to catch up.

It was with excitement I started to blog.  I would ask the questions I wondered when my hands were elbow deep in suds and  mounds of laundry.  A reader wrote and said I had no difficulty asking who they would take on a journey as Dante took Virgil but she like others never gave thought to these kinds of questions.

Nor roamed the ethers with such equanimity as I seemed to do.  I had and still have difficulty with this concept because I thought that my head is like everyone else’s.  We are taught in school that all men are created equal.  And children do not want to be different.  My head wanted to know things.  I had a need to know.

In my writing I see where people are not born all in the same kindnesses.  For some the ability to love has not been born in them yet.  The ability to see also has not been born which is different than looking.  The ability to discuss things,  to feel,  to conceptualize, the ability to grasp the essence or a nuance, or the ability to relate by bonding, by trust, by hope, by word or handshake, and simply by humanity is outside their frame of reference.

When our rituals and icons seem narrow for the questions burgeoning, it is time to broaden the premise.  Not to toss out the premise,  but  broaden our understanding.  When our God seems too small for the questions forming in us,  it is time to broaden our concepts with larger understanding.

When a favorite sister came out of open heart surgery her first words were man’s god is too small!  He is huge!  No church can hold Him!!!

Will it surprise us that the god of our childhood has a soaring scope that our finite brains will have difficulty envisioning?  Ahhh!  that is a journey that is exciting to begin.

And when we reach an understanding that goes nowhere and we bang our head on the wall with the maxim it is all a mystery,  it is only a way station we reach and another door will open up.  And again we are given light to brighten the way.   Seems like work?  It is.

But be assured that you will be invited to the table to share your journey.

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In Good Hands. . .

 

 

In Good Hands. . . .

I will invite you
to sit beside me
on my couch. . .

To lean into my arms
to wrest the fatigue
from a body
grown weary with age. . .

It will come to nothing,
this fatigue with aging
because the heart of you
is alive and well . . .

Alive for the world
you have prepared yourself
diligently with work, with love,
with patience. . .

How do I know this?

You invited me in to
have a time of repair of Spirit
when I needed. . .

to sup at your table
full of good talk with laughter,
at the fire with corn
in the one bowl I shared
with your sons. . .
to have sat to converse with topics
scraping the souls
of their transparency. . .

These were the times I knew
my choices were good ones
and the futures of my worlds

in good hands. . . .                                                       

 

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I’ve Taken Flight. . . .

 

 

A Conversation  . . .

You say. . . 
I’ve taken flight. . . . .

and I say. . . .
where can you go
that I could not find you?

And you say. . . .
farther than you think.
I’ve found me a world
so far away
that never would you
think to look.

 

And  I say. . . .
I step between worlds
all the time and find
I simply need to
adjust my perspective.

You say . . . . .
You have said that
before and I don’t know
how to do that.

I say. . . .
it takes many lifetimes to learn.
But each time a new direction
is taken. . .you make adjustments.

Ahhh,  you say. . . . .
Smart way to do it.
Each time a new direction,
a new adjustment.

I say. . . .
There is much space for travels
and many chances.   We live
in a gracious Universe. . . .

spread out beneath the overwhelming premise that All Is God.

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Words From A Borning World. . . .

(from a recent journal entry edited only for space)

So there was no one to talk to.  No one who understood the worlds I trespassed nor was welcomed in.  I stayed.  And took cover in what I had to do which left me open mouthed every time I heard something that belly whopped me with I cannot believe they said that!  Cannot believe!

And I never learned to talk on my feet even to this day.  I listen and give the speaker their time and think about what I coulda, shoulda said.  But could not, did not because I do not talk on my feet.  I need to think.  And I can only do one thing at a time.

So I have listened.  There have been a handful of good friends.  Heart friends who said I was a deep thinker.  I did not know what a deep thinker was.  What is a deep thinker?  One who listens  to the silent voice within,  the Comforter within,  the still small voice within,  the thoughts which come from a somewhere else destined for you?  Because no person  wants to talk to you?

And when my thoughts because I think them,  originate with me  I take  to the wall and bang my head there,  I find matched by thoughts from an elsewhere world, I know I have come home to another some place.

I was thinking this morning,  sitting in the dining room and looking out in the yard,  that what if I wrote with my computer what I did in the 2012 journal that there is an  overriding power that undergirds this universe, or universes with the symbol >:____—–:> except there would be curving lines which I cannot do or cannot do with this keyboard but another world took them to be a primitive understanding of a physical world because this is a borning world.

With a small physical brain and said she had something there with this and then put this symbol to work with a higher element of learning,  I would not the teachers said,  recognize the experience as mine  but within the higher learning I could  take comfort that my gleanings would have meaning.

They could take this symbol and say she understood that there was a rumbling thunder that was the beginning that left in its wake what we now know as the heart’s assuagement of a yearning that is the key to understanding somewhat a birth in process of a movement.

What was  thought of as a big bang theory was in reality an assuage of genetic anguish that has kept the earth in turmoil for forever it seemed with no termination.  Giving it a name will eventually terminate it and chasten the ancients’ ancestors’ anguish and continue therefore  a birthing process in movement.  And perhaps the babe in the manger will be allowed to grow to be the adult Christ in our Heart   (Emmanuel. Emmanuel god within )  and evolution will jumpstart itself.

And they will ask again,  give me some of that pipe she is smoking.  I like that mixture.

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Loved You Long Before The World Ever Was. . . .

 

This is the latest photo of Emma E. that I have and I love it.  I think she has a big surprise that she keeps hidden but I am sure she will let me know soon.  That half smile she has lurking around her eyes gives her away each time.  It is a big secret I think she keeps,  but there is no prying out of her.

I know all about prying locks open before their time.  It is like letting loose a down pillow with all the feathers flying about.  Like Pandora’s box letting loose its secrets before their time.  No use then trying to get the secrets back into the box!

Emma E. holds herself upright much of the time.  She tries standing with support and one of these days she will as her grandfather’s youngest brother did,  climbed out of his crib at barely nine months.  And when I plumped him down after a hundred times shouted at him,  why did you choose me as your mother?

Will Emma E.’s mother shout at her after a hundred times the same thing?  And will she be as surprised as I was with the words coming out of me because I never gave thought to my sons choosing me?  And realized of course I knew that somewhere deep inside of me?

Because I always told them I loved them long before the world ever was!  And I always told my grands that I also loved them long before the world ever was.  I, of course, knew that to be true but I had to hear myself saying those words out loud.

Maybe Emma E. smiles because she already knows that I have loved her long before the world ever was.  And she knows that I will love her forever and forever more.

That has to be a nice thing to know for sure.

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