Archive | Essays

My Earth, I Take It Personally. . . .

My Earth, I take it personally. . .

When I was a homeowner it was said I took it all personally and it was impossible to live like that. To me the world cannot be lived in fully unless it is taken personally.  It is the only way to process information for any meaning to be applied.  It must be personal.  It must be meant for you.  If it is not personal, you are a passer through.  These are my thoughts on this, my world.

Everything in this world is mine.  From the thought in my head to my surroundings.  To my actions, to the weather in the course of days, to my thoughts in the length of my nights.  I am on stage in a morality play, in a thoughtful participation of all life.

I do everything in conjunction with everything else.  I do it because I must, to the best of my ability.  The things are visible, to someone in a somewhere.  To my neighbors who are nowhere in sight.  To the ethers who view and label my actions, to the best of my ability because I can do nothing else.   And what I do will have far reaching effects.

I think what I think because I think it.  My earliest thought was ‘think it through’ and I did.   Embarrassing, uncomfortable all the time, but rewarding in retrospect.  In carrying a thought to conclusion another aspect opened.  And so led me to more thought.

And I learned that all life is thought.  Everything is a thought form and every thought creates a something. With the question arising, what is it we wish to create?  We are a lesson in process.

Arrogant?  I think not.  Because if everyone knew this, we would be working our buns off outdoing each other in caring for our Earth.  Work would be the mode of action.

I saw a pin on a young woman in a store that said, Ask me to do as little as possible!   Inspire confidence?  Shows me she cares or is proud of her work?  Shows me she approaches life in a caring way?  She will leave the world a better place?  Funny pin?  To some, perhaps.

Because I take things personally, and because it is my world, made for me, I have to do what I can.  I wish to leave it with one more person caring.

Just for those who cross my threshold to feel better about themselves.  And given food for thought and to see their eyes light up on the yard and see that love cares for it by who the gardener is.

All birds sing for me.  All life grows for me.  All thoughts are directed at me and I with love embrace all of it.  Because I feel this way, I will work and my eyes will appreciate the greatness of the gift given.  And know the ache in my bones and fatigue is indeed a small price for this caretaker.

You realize of myself I can do nothing.  To ask to be an instrument of peace means that one will be asked to work.  It is my world and it is personal.  I have not been a passer through.  Everything is a lesson and everyone teaches.  I did not know how else to do it.

My world, my commitments, my priorities. Maybe arrogant to think so, but it has been a responsible attitude, done with joy.  If nothing else because then there was no one else to do it.  Now that circumstances alter cases, because I see, it is still mine to do as long as I am able.

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

 

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The Keys Of The Kingdom. . . .

The Keys of the Kingdom. . .

My good friend appeared at the door and said you have to learn to play and we start now.  Alas, another argument begun about our differences , proving again opposites can be friends.

It is my good fortune and sometimes a curse to have the ability to view and discern behavior.  Because I see clearly what is one man’s meat is another’s poison.

People approach work and play differently.  I watched our sons grow and in process changed attitudes.  Mowing lawns, chore but cleaning the garage, therapeutic with a ‘look what I found!’  Planting flowers with their Latin names an art and school homework eagerly approached as to subject.

With the youngest I looked forward to making a hockey rink every week after Christmas.  I happily stood in below freezing weather and spraying but 2 a.m. was my last spraying! I shouted!  I somehow related to my elderly neighbor who sprayed with hose and nozzle in the summer for hours.  There is something spiritual about watering whether ice rink or garden.

One inlaw daughter with her artistic talent makes brussel  sprouts look awesome.  Another can make tired furniture look new even with ongoing construction.  Coupling these details with their professional talents make these an extension of their work.

Where is learned the virtue of labor and beauty in the doing?  The magic of it all is in the heart.  It is approaching the place in mind that says all is play because the body is actualizing the mind’s intent and therein lies the beauty.

Fortunate you are if someone loved you that you with love are remembering and teaching.  The memory comes alive at sometime and we pay it forward.  Some have not known it but we can be the memory for their future.

A brother and I discussed this and he said sis,  you have found the keys of the kingdom, haven’t you?  There is no more than this in its deepest.  It is all art in the making.  My Mentor said that the fields are ready and the call is out for the vineyards.  There is virtue in the labor and beauty in the doing.

A Belief System. . . (an excerpt). . .

The answers will be forever hidden
in a place no one chooses to look;
the hearts and minds of those
who love this earth with passion.
Surprised they will be
to see in the palm of their hand

the keys of the kingdom . . .

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The Workman Prays. . .

I had watched The Sound of Music  with my inlaw mother and I scribed a journal entry about it enjoying it for the umpteenth time.  I edited only for space.

April 12, ’93. . .It is with joy when  the heart of the viewer is touched.  It is joy when the hearts of man are swayed toward a gentler night; a joy when the master at home would have enjoyed the show.  Few abound and too few would stay.  It seems only women are audience.

Most things that deal with the heart are things which the female gender are saddled.  Too few males know the presence of their own heart or admit to it.  We know the effort of listening to the heart.  The gentler societies yield to their own hearts splendidly.  In the macho male societies we see the testosterone syndrome.  The one of man for man’s sake and it is a sadness when seen and we mean for man to see his nurturing side revealed.  It is only then that he will mercifully see this side that isolates him from gentleness. 

It is this side that yields to heaven’s words that opens him.  Does the female gender ever wonder how man prays, if he does?

This question took me by surprise and I said I never thought to ask.  I often asked opinions of males but never what mode of prayer, if even they do. The Teacher then asked me to elaborate my method of prayer.  I thought through and realized that ongoing conversation with my within god was a lifetime practice.  The conversation never stops.

This was a long discourse with another question of how do children pray.  I presumed pleading of I need or I want, petitioning of sorts.  Asking what others pray about I wrote is like asking them to reveal themselves in broad daylight to the media, isn’t it?

Working this thesis in mind gave thought and word to the following poem.  With so many males in my present lifetime, I have learned much about them.  Much I have never voiced and led many to think I am not only naïve but gullible.  My silence has only emphasized my compassion.

 

The Workman Prays. . . .silently we talk. . .

In the quiet
I take my tools of trade
and hold talk with whatever
Master Workman I need,
be he plumber and carpenter,
and one of less muscle, wordsmith,
seen or not.

In the silence we will
speak our hearts and take direction
and refuge solely because
there is nothing else to do.

We have done it all.
We have consumed our portions
and what is left is
for us to make peace with,
whatever our truth.

This is our prayer, if prayer it be,
our talk in the midst of our work
and what is left of our day.

The rest is litter, I think
and somewhat sorry and sad
that more of worth is not left
to feed the night and
those of heart’s promise.

It has taken all that I are to get here.  Amen and amen.

(poem written and are is correct
May 21, 2018)

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Life Balances Everything. . .

They were shadowing a century when they came to visit my in law mother and I had them all over for dinner.  I had married into a U.K. background, the satellite being Scotland.

Seated at a comfort meal, even the aged, ailing  uncle pleaded for a taste of real food of roast beef and mashed potatoes.  He happily ate.

Rrrronnie. . . .Aunt May rolled her r’s as she started with another helping.  What do you think of a mother who capped her daughter in summer because she had dark hair?  Startled , I said, I thought someone had issues not resolved.

I listened carefully to facts from this cousin hoping for light on my not understood difficulties with this  Anglo Saxon Protestant family I could never please.  I researched and found Scotland had been invaded several times in their history by nomads looking for delta land to feed the growing tribes on the move.  Their early history of course revolved about the break from the Romans.

But recently I read an article that new evidence shows that Africa was once green and easy to cross with many waters easy to navigate.  African tribes these hundreds of thousands of years ago left their mainland in droves, swooping countries with devastation in its wake.

We see today the ravages of war across too many places to count.  Generations will find that whatever their much toted pristine origins will be taken aback when the grandchild arrives with features outside their familiar culture.  Like the in law mother who as a child was made to wear a hat in summer by a severely prejudicial grandmother intent on appearances.

And unsuspecting but eager to be loved younger I marrying into an unknown family wondered why I fell short.   They only saw  features from an Eastern European heritage labeled rural and did not know the educated ancestors with a grandmother who spoke seven languages.

In the farm country of my home state settled by Germans where I spent my formative years, a grandfather announced a grandson to his friends with a sidebar of he has black curly hair and brown skin but he’s mine.  Of course he was and I look upon extended family and see unfamiliar features and even  tight, black curls of one of ours (from the Scottish line) and so far no blue eyes but who knows?

The sense of soil exhibited by some family members has made me look closely at investing some fantasy monies if they came to me in household bleach of any kind.  Watching these members scrub a genetic history of hundreds of thousands of years ago of what they consider stain on their pristine hides leaves me with a desire to shout as my Mentor did, ye are brothers!

You are your brothers’ keeper.  You are, we are,  I Am. . . . .

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Can One Be A Better Anything Than One Is A Person?. . .

 

Can One Be a Better Anything Than One Is a Person?

Many times, even vehemently, it has been stated that one cannot be a better anything than one is a person.  And the lesson is one well taken.  It would seem that more work is needed in the moral posturing  of would be leaders.  Lessons learned are not the ones they would be most proud of.  And the big lesson here is that there are many who feel that as long as they pay their bills and do good, nothing else should be questioned.

All who aspire to leadership of the common man, the average man needing the guidance of astute leaders wish to see those portions of one’s life one wants to hide, remain hidden.   But is it fair to place a man in leadership where when the big issues are approached one questions the integrity of the person?

Again we are at the basic assumption of whether one can be a better anything than one is a person.  What about one’s commitments, one’s honor, one’s word?  What about these values which have built people’s lives into civilized containers that have led many toward better health and quality lives?

In teaching morality to the young, for they will again need to be taught, is it the proper response to a biological function to say wear a condom or to say the highest of all human emotions regarding the sanctity of life needs to be placed in the highest category and not relegated to minute entertainment?

We have more than moral integrity on the line.  Should we also ask the aspiring candidates for medical tests to ensure that their tour of duty will not be interrupted by a social disease?

We ask that the nation united behind a leader who asks that one give his life in war noting that the issue is argued in good conscience by objectors of war.  And that same individual will unaccountably say that he could not commit himself to the marriage union without straying but in that case it was all right for only his near ones were involved.

The arbitrary disposition of such procedures still must be argued.  The arbitrary compulsiveness when the individual has no control over his own body yet wishes to control all bodies of all persons makes little sense.  Into whose hands does the common, average person place his conscience?

What one does behind closed door will be argued as private.  Yet war is not private but public,  for all to participate in, to maim and kill and honor and dishonor one another.  It would seem fruitless to go further.  It would seem not a cogent nor coherent thing to do to espouse maturity in judgment concerning matters of state when matters of personal discipline are questionable.

It would seem to an enlightened electorate that what is evidenced and is not questionable due to personal motives, be the guideline where the very large issue of personal integrity is at stake.  It would seem that perhaps all issues which neither fit nor are comfortable for the human be disregarded.  And should that be the case, what would be substituted as guidelines for those looking for direction on what to do?

We could dissolve into a sensual state where the pleasures of the body rule.  Where when one is at a loss in the face of large issues, one buries oneself in the momentary oblivion of the physical.  Perhaps that is the direction humanity wishes to go.  It would be far easier and soon there would be chaos in the streets where rape and pillage would not be an issue but a norm.

Perhaps it is carried to an extreme with this analogy.  But what we see when man reaches the age of reason, whatever that means in terms of legality, there must also come a discipline which is self imposed.  Perhaps there must be a waiting time for what is most desired.

Perhaps there must be new priorities set upon those common things of marriage and children.  But there must be education.  And there must be direction that will give the young avenues upon which their raging hormones can be vented in good use.  Not in the making of more babies and not in the promiscuous behavior which is given clemency in everyone’s mind.

Strange, isn’t it?  That the kind of behavior we espouse is behavior which in other times and places was simply called decent; the proper thing to do.  But obviously not in these times and this place.

In accordance with today’s mores, today’s values, and the statistics on the spread of diseases which can affect even the most productive life, of need will be a new adaptation of what it is the human body can withstand.  It would seem child’s play in retrospect to rediscover that education and an adherence to Victorian attitudes is in order.  But not with the ancient embarrassment attached to the human body.

With an attitude of understanding that the human body is vulnerable and the human psyche not equal to healing as quickly as one would suppose.  Even with death as a specter, reason should tell us that the human being is of quality as to be revered.  Not a conquest of the adolescent but to be honored and revered in direct proportion vulnerable as is one’s own life.

A thorough understanding of what human life is all about is in order.  A better understanding of what the fallout of promiscuous behavior has on the young should be apparent to all.  Lessons we teach are often not the lessons we wish to teach.  It would seem obvious to the thinker that lines of discipline are instituted for the just purpose of preserving life.  The thinking one knows this.

Those bent on shaking and moving must also be taught that discipline becomes the first one, and that is the individual.  Then the example will be the best teacher.  One has listened to the old adage ‘do as I say and not as I do.’  And yet when the authority figure in question sets examples that may lead to debility if practiced by another, one should first of all question the authority and wonder the example he sets.

There are those who argue for the privacy of the individual to do what he or she pleases behind closed doors.  Contagious diseases are not silent.  They ride rampant and they maim.

In these days where nothing is private, it best behooves the individuals running for highest offices in the land, offices that yearn to set an example for the commoner as well as the foreigner, or the office that wishes to unite the world in peace and brotherhood, be above reproach.

The kinds of issues that are brought up with the undisciplined individual are many.  We started off with the undisciplined in body.  The body is what we try to master first.  If we are not able to master the body’s rage and desires, how then can we even begin to give appetite to others’ lives?

The individual who loves plants and wishes to water and feed them, knowing what is required, will be a good tenderer.  The individual who wishes to be a physician will know how important it is to be first a doctor.  The individual who wishes to be an educator must at first be a good teacher.

There are differences attached but the each must first be developed a discipline.  And discipline ranges the professions in the same measure as ranges within the individual.

In the outward things, man does not appear to have difficulty, assuming as he does that the work will be affected by the effort.  So in the human condition.  The individual will be affected with the results of undisciplined behavior.  It cannot be stressed too highly how the undisciplined, whether in private life or public life will have an effect upon those they wish to reach.  And the lessons we teach might be those we wish we had not.

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The Ruler. . .

 

The Ruler . . .

Do not chop me up in little pieces.
I hate the sight of what I see
when I see me through your eyes.

I strive to be perfect
and in doing so find me
killing my very self.

By whose yardstick
am I measured that I
should fall so short?

An unguarded moment
can make or break a world.
Today I find mine broken.

Should I expect you to build me a new one?

 

Recent Journal entry April 2018. . . They have written and they ask why they fall so short when they try so hard.  And this failure levels them to the degree that all desire for advancement leaves them in the dirt and in the dirt they are stepped on.

Lost in a world of numbers and competition for place in family, in life, notably already feeling unnoticed, has put many walking out on talents enormously needed.

We come into the world unique and yet this uniqueness is not appreciated but considered undesirable differences.  Those who want to be a presence in new life as well as those who wish to find their own centers of substance, are in need and they are neither female nor male specifically but human beings essentially. 

And to be different is not appreciated.  When striving to do better to please also brings forth intelligence which has an inner glow.  And again forces more separation because one appears then better than they who originally found the difference threatening.

We wish a way to avoid curtailing a person’s growth crucial to their evolution, and growth possible to those whose own sense of failure results in stepping on the heads of others, especially children.  The mother gods and father gods desire to hold their positions forever it seems lest they go down with the proverbial glub. 

Who has the courage to see their progeny outstrip them in intelligence and maturity?  Yet the purpose of life is growth and promoting the potential of everyone.  To grow and become accountable was held a priority. 

The intent has always been that emotional growth would be commensurate with chronological aging.  That when behavior was appropriate to the age, the emotions would match.  Such has not been the case. 

Adults go their graves clutching the child within to their bosoms.  Childlike awe and wonder is never out of date; childishness only appropriate under 5 years.

It is time to grow up.  Lest the devices deemed to amuse today’s world become weapons of war.

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The Cost Of War?. .don’t get me started. . . .

The Cost Of War. . .Knotted Family Ties. . .

She was little more than a toddler.  She was plain, even mousy by standards of beauty deemed for the very few.  Stringy hair, hazel eyes with poor sight even and not the porcelain English complexion esteemed by her heritage.  Left with her brother in Scotland while her mother set out for Canada to set up housekeeping for a husband wounded in the first world war and sent to a Toronto hospital for care. Left too long for the toddler, for when she and her brother were sent to travel the ocean with hired friends, she arrived to find herself no longer the center of interest.

Arriving to find a new sister, with blue eyes, curly blond locks and a porcelain skin already called ‘doll’ because of her exquisite English heritage.  Welcomed the first sister was with acknowledgment that she was a big sister to look out for the ‘doll’.  Her cry was ‘I’m little, too!’ and would be for almost a hundred years.

Heartbreaking, but pathetic also, to the generations listening powerless to untie the knots that were tied by circumstances only those who tied them could untie.  To hear an octogenarian  begin every explanation of her life with those words, ‘I’m little, too!’ and need to be parented by everyone regardless of age was an uncomfortable position for everyone.   Requiring always to be center, even when birthing an only child and stealing from the father’s child the parental love and caring necessary for his growth.

The girl toddler grown aged never made peace even with her own progeny.  Always displaced she was, shunted aside for every newly minted child coming into the family.  Hers was a life of pampering the aging psyche forever the child by a husband who could care for only one.  He learned too late for him with no time left, the unhealthy conditions for everyone.  And how what was not done left the shouldering of burdens on the unsuspecting coming into the family.

We learn ‘suffer the little children’ with the words taking root and no one thinking that the conditions of the beatitude would take forever to unearth.  No one thought we would perpetrate upon our progeny burdens that would make leaden their feet and prevent growth.  We would fertilize beliefs that we must assuage the anguish of the ancestors and give them what was owed.  Hence we prepare the ground for more bloodshed.

Do circumstances of our lives provide the fodder for weapons of war and peace and goodwill are the two weeks of grace given as reward at the end of the year?  I don’t think that was the intent when the prophecy was fulfilled.  We have to grow up sometime.  Else the stagnation persists and evolution is halted.  Think on it.  This small instance of one little girl is multiplied forever anon.  The cost of war?  Don’t get me started.. . .

Excerpt from the
Knotted Family Ties. . .

I close the shutters and pull up the steps.
I learn to live in my own house.
I stay my time and do what is mine.

Jesus, it hurts to watch and be able to do nothing.

 

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We Can Always Say. . . not ready. . . .

On What We Build Our Lives. . .

The construction is still in process, but we are nesting!   I am not sure it is Maudie, but surely a younger.  No doubt word was given that if babies are on the agenda, ‘this place is one we know and trust.  And they talk to you with real words, all of them do.  They keep tabs on you and watch the watch as all of us wish.’

I was surprised to see the doves begin building their nest.  Certainly with the construction going on in the back of the house, there were splinters and broken by the wind leaves and branches.  The two birds carried the pieces, one splint at a time, up to the nest.  I watched for some time and wondered if they would soon figure an easier way to do it.  It seemed to take at least two days, but then sitting on the nest was mama.  We didn’t think there were eggs yet, but she sat and is still sitting.  I will note the calendar.

When sleep eludes, the backyard offers privacy to hold the Newfie along with Maudie again and of course the (invisible) Sages In Conference.  I am at home with all this and know how fortunate I am.  In February I journaled that as I was sitting resting my arms on bent knees, I felt what I thought a hand on my back.  It was a loving touch and I thought son John had come through the patio door.

I lifted my head and a bird flew over from my back.  I thought oh my, he walked up my back and I felt his weight. What trust!  The connection I feel with Nature assures me my presence is welcome and my words to life are understood.  When we lose that connection to Nature, we soon lose it with persons and it becomes non existent with the cosmic world.

We count on devices to tell us we are liked and ignore the human next to us.  Who will catch us as we draw our last breath and watch the world calmly folding itself unto itself as the illusion it is?  On what have we built our lives?  What has been our focus?. . . .

As I Watched. . .

Part of a whole, yet wholly here.
Slowly as I watched
the silence was encompassing.

Piece by blessed piece, each tree,
each entity slowly folded upon itself
and laid itself down.

The screen protecting vanished
as it bent itself into nothing,
a wisp of an idea no longer useful.

Trees, one by one bent over themselves
and laid themselves down and
disappeared onto the forest floor.

And I thought now neat!
No evidence, no residue of debris
to litter the surroundings.

I murmured his name as I watched
the scene disappear and he said, don’t move.
And time collapsed for me again

into the frame of reference I know as mine.
And again the journey continued and
I sit and wonder and marvel at

this multifaceted existence I know as life.

(poem written March, 2017)

photo today April 8, 2018
by John Stanley Hallissey)

 

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Dreamed Into Being. . .

 

Physical and mental boundaries are not finite.  We often speak of primitive religions disparagingly.  It does not take a genius mentality to see that in this tech world we have lost the spiritual connection to the cosmic populace.

We speak of life everlasting yet are afraid to die.  We speak of resurrection and buy cemetery plots to make it easy to put us back together?  Come again?

We are creators of the worlds we inhabit as I write so many times.  Individually and en masse we create the climate for what happens.  The book by Robert Nozick called The Examined Life (written while on sabbatical from Harvard) announces that perhaps we are in the creation business as apprentices.  Perhaps we will be in charge of something else anon?

Mental boundaries no longer exist.  There is a spirit afoot (always was) to those whose ears and hearts are open to hear  and will have courage to speak of this.  There are those whose brains are open albeit a tiny percentage more than the average and are given ideas that will find grounding in this world.  And to those whose eyes are open will see and be able to interpret the writing on the wall.

The science gods tell us that we use just 5 percent of our brains.  Why has evolution stagnated?  Why are we so narrowly focused and why has our Earth become such a playground for the privileged?

These ideas are not new.  I try to make them understandable.  All life is simultaneous.  Quantum Physics teaches this.  When man appeared on Earth, Eden was everywhere.  Maverick thinking? I think not.  My scope had to broaden to contain my commitments.  Whether my lifetime bears me out, I leave to the heavens.  They still hold the sparklers.

Dreamed Into Being. . .

I love this Earth Planet she said,
it is a place of verdant lands
and high thoughts. . .

It is a place where images send
these thoughts aloft and tie me
to that place of love.

We walked it many times of course,
she said, but now the choice
is mine again. . .

How to stay and finish a work
the Master said was needed even
by one such as me?

I hold the only authority that counts.
No letters can give me that
which is already mine.

I claimed that on the day I said, I AM
and chose to BE. . . .were her words.
Simple as that and as hard. . .

I finish my work and then go home,
to the ‘old country’  that holds for me
she said, all that I cherish.

It is a dream I dreamed
and called into Being. . .
that is how

new worlds are born. . . . .

June, 2015

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Prayer In Concert. . .

In Conference. . .

I was a young girl when the priest came to our home and my mother saying. ‘I don’t know who teaches her because I don’t.  I don’t know where she gets her ideas.’  Years of criticism for my different ideas but my work habits were praised.  I was diligent, thorough and needing praise for a starving heart.

On my road to Damascus experiences when my world crashed in my mid thirties, I could not believe good intentions and love were so easily crushed.  With the help of a good doctor and my belief that I was still choice goods, rebuilding began.  Not easy to do when one’s only bastion of strength was in thought and thinking.  And one’s reason for being were three young sons who needed their mother at home.

Some call it prayer, others call it meditation.  I called it duelogues because oh my I argued.  I seldom carried it out loud because of setting off unrest in others I learned, hence the duelogues.  I crashed the gates of heaven because how could what was taught in church school and on Sundays be so wrong when I worked so hard to do everything right by the church, by the book, by heart and even invented.

If it could not work where I was, then it was a lie and I wanted no part of it.  Heaven  convinced me that it could work and did and then we began our work.  And work it has been.  24/7.

Then over the years dialogues and then In Conference.  The poetry was continuing along with the journals when I found myself scribing.  I typed hard copy because of my need to see in print what I heard was psychologically sound and philosophically palatable.  It had to make sense.  And my life had to show it.  It has and I continue to work it.

To make my work understandable, the small voice within, god within, comforter, or the smooth pipe that Emerson called it that the angels or the muses speak through, works at one with me.  I hope this post makes my work easier to understand.  I am unable to explain the thought processes.  But it has been a lifetime of mutual trust.  (I enclose an excerpt from July 1, 2015 journal and also a poem for that day.  Sometimes they coincide and this day is one. It will make the poem easier to understand.  Some editing was done as I pick up the words)

From the Teachers . . .much will jar the houseboats of peoples and they will look again at the justice and injustices of partnerships whether in the same house or not.  We know the intricacy of such matters.  We know your penchant to keep words to a minimum.  The aim is to get as many as possible to the table and to think.  Eat and think.  One and the same.  What is being fed will make its way to the minds of men and there will be growth and there will be a road that has been scythed for travel.  We will have a striving for peace.  People will realize that the difference they make within themselves will be the greatest difference they can possibly make.

Prayer In Concert. . . from the other side. . .

It was prayer you held in concert
with the Great One who marked
your presence on his counter of beads.

Talks, mostly dialogues, it seems,
and held court with sages long asleep
on couches too soft for too long. . .

Rise!  You shouted and they, appalled
at the sight of woman,
rose and were rightly chastised.

They had forgotten the bread lines
and the penniless people and
children’s bellies bloated from hunger.

You brought them to shame and now
they remember how the ivory towers
separated their lives from the
grime in the streets below.

Now you tell them in languages understood
how deep the hunger for knowledge
can be as if for bread; to keep alive
a mind from sleep;  (like scourge
it contaminates all minds of men).

We wake them up and put to work
the fathers of the children forever seeded

with memory from a place the angels tread.                                    

 

 

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