Archive | Excerpts

Because I Chose You. . .



Thank You For Choosing Me As Your Parent. . . . .

For those who think Eve was an afterthought of Adam, give some time to this disclosure as to her purpose for humanity.  Perhaps this should be included in our thinking when we discuss the competition and jealousies which plague the genders.

The following came to light with a reading of the journal entries that I had scribed.  Why I did not pick it out long before now I can only guess.  Mothers in particular have special relationships with children in that they carried them, and they look upon them as extensions of mind and heart.  Not all do. but many.  This extension was the primary intent.

 ‘Such had been the intent of the birthing process.  That through the mother there would flow the process which would unite man to the each and give to the each a feeling of brotherhood. 

 It was not intended to be a divisive process and without feeling.  The caring, the uniting, the intention of belonging to the greater humanity was what being human was all about.

Parenting in all of its ramifications is not a lark’s song.  It is a mean job, not without its joy but work it is.  We cannot hope to fulfill all needs but a good beginning is crucial.  When we elevate the act of creation of the new human to its highest level possible, heaven will no longer lament that we can only send out what we take in.’

You may not know because of lack of memory when you say ‘thank you to your children for choosing me as your parent because I chose you’ but somehow in the full scheme of things,  you know it couldn’t be otherwise.

Three Sons. .

Bone of my bone,
blood of my blood,
born of desire
filtered through my heart.

You stand tall,
you men of proper mean,
with hearts fired
and found not wanting.

You’ve yielded to a sun
that has boiled your blood
and found the moons of your soul,
half frozen.

Vitality sapped,
stone cold,
you rise
resurrected and unafraid.

Bruises, welts and wounds,
seen and unseen,
are kissed
by a benevolent universe

and healed in love.


artwork by
Claudia Hallissey


From The Top Of My Heart. . .


(January 29, 2017 journal entry I want to share.  It is only in rereading that I realize that I connect all manner of things in thought.  It is the reason for my seamless existence.  It all connects.)

Man cannot put in what God has left out.  Joe Biden in the Clarence Thomas hearings said this one early morning.  My sister was visiting and was glued to the TV set and I was knitting.  It was nearing 2 a.m.   What did he say? I asked.  And she repeated man cannot put in what God has left out.  That’s my missing link I said.  That’s it. ( I have researched the maxim but never found the source other than Joe Biden.)

For no matter how hard you work and how much you love,  the person has to want whatever for himself otherwise it will have no meaning.   They will avoid you and your ministration because they know you want something from them but damn if they know what.  If it is outside their frame of reference all your talk in the world will have no meaning.  Because they will have no clue.  No clue.

Why do I have such difficulty with this aspect of humanity?  Because it means that the best teachers cannot do anything if the student does not yearn and learn.  Not once but for all time.

Does it mean that the teacher gives up?  The teacher has to exhibit and make the student want whatever he deems crucial.  It puts the yearning and learning on the student.  Only then will the lesson take.

Who taught me?  Many teachers and they loved me enough to keep on loving and exhibiting the lesson.  Because the love and trust and learning were not evident in this life when I needed them most.  I remembered from other times and wanted these things for myself.  How many lifetimes?  A zillion or maybe one.  I cannot know from the top of my heart.

I know without doubt that love is all that matters.  I know without doubt that virtue is in labor.  I know without doubt I bring value to my life.  And unless we bring meaning to our lives and world there is none.  We will sleep a long sleep and wake up when we tire of sleeping.  And get on the road again.

We are in the creation business and have been since we first jumped ship and went for expression.  At first we did it for sport but over time it became serious business.  How serious we know now when our planet is in dire jeopardy and we chance to lose our classroom.  We had better become stewards.  The unborn demand this of us.  Life demands accountability because the next time may require hip boots as we walk in ash.



Photo by Joe Hallissey Jr.


It Makes Little Difference. . . .




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


Life With a Capital L. . . . . .


From a recent journal entry in October. . . .I have been doing a lot of thinking and a lot of reading and am nowhere near coming to any kind of conclusions other than it is all lived in the mind.  And perhaps Frank Herbert is correct when he has Odrade in Chapterhouse say is evolution the same as God.  And I would say Life with a capital L.  And perhaps there is a lot of bending and moaning about something that we are no nearer to understanding from this place than we can possibly be.  I don’t know but what as I wrote in my steno notebook,  that perhaps Earth life is stable or illusively stable or perhaps our illusion has a stable substance in order for us to understand other worlds which may roll and rock enormously.

I do not think it surprises me after reading Talbot’s book on holographic universes that we have a moderately stable world simply to get on with learning what needs to be learned.  How better than to pretend that everything is going to last forever.  Yet today when I was reading Chapterhouse again Odrade says that nothing ever lasts forever, whether we are talking about oceans or planets or trees or anything we think is stable and not yielding to change.  Wherever we are, we are but stewards of whatever world we inhabit.  And I think that is the strongest statement I can bend to.  I have long felt that I was steward of what I inhabited and maintained.  I worked hard at it and it is burned into my brain.  We are stewards.  No matter what world we are in.

Everything changes.  And all we need to do is look at our country with the weather changes.  Snow and frost already in the northeast and floods throughout the southwest and fires flaring through the mountains and the land parched.  Are we in trouble?  I think we are in change.  I think our oceans are in trouble and fish that die and land that cannot grow grass for cattle to graze.  Everything changes and nothing is forever.

And today I was thinking that no matter how many parts of me were cut up,  I would be whole in each part.  And I think that I understand the holographic universe in just that way.  That Jesus said life is everlasting.  We are safe.  We are whole.  We are.  Am.  And the worlds folding onto itself, in the implicate center folds where everything already is, to the explicate outer rims where I am.  And in the understanding of the roll of it constantly, it folds and refolds onto itself and with it comes new understanding because it is all in a state of becoming.  So is evolution another name for God or is it just necessary to understand that life is everlasting?  What is not learned at this point in time will be learned at another.  But Sweet Jesus,  I hope we do not destroy this world before common sense prevails and saves us all.


Memories With No Putting Place. . .

Barn Scene - Detail

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?’


A Good Friend

DSC_2920A Good Friend. . . .

There is a dark side to everyone’s personality, especially the sensitive one.  This dark side often  rides the sensitive so heavily that others find them burdensome.  Yet needful because being sensitive,  they are often  also understanding and responsible.  When one needs a someone,  they are always there, to  make the poultices,  change the beds and do the laundry.  Not to wring their hands and whine that they do not know what to do.

And that is the difference.  The dark side of the personality has learned how to make a situation better because they have had to learn through their own lives how to make themselves feel better.  They know what makes an other feel good.

It is hard to live with such a person but harder still to live with one who wrings their hands and runs away.  There is nothing within such a one that makes the connection between their soul and the other who is hurting.

A Good Friend

You stayed the night
while I lumbered my body
through a partition closing me from life.

While I fought
through a sea of memories
holding me hostage
to long and lonely years.

You saw me through
eyes of tears reflecting  the hardness
mine needed to smelt with coals
being fired in a heart of no use.

But you stayed, close as my skin
and had you pulled away
I would have understood.
You stalk me yet and I stand.

My eyes have shed their steel casings,
now ground as dust beneath my heel.
I look inward to softer places
and find the world not so hard.

You tell me you need to stay close
because you wish to claim
my strength if only by association,
but I ask,

of what heavenly use is a soft shell crab?



art by Claudia Hallissey



The Sound Loaf



The Sound Loaf

Evolution or God
(perhaps one and the same)
finely grinds the meal
ever so slowly
while I cannot breathe
with the dust in the air.

But there will one day
be understanding
with the digestion of the bread. . . .
The wholeness of the grain
so nicely baked till the hollow sound
is heard when tapped,
gives credence to the sound loaf.

I can no longer wait
for it all to cool.
It has taken far too long
for this bread to be made
and yet still to be digested.

The bellies are still
immature for whole grain.
Pablum is the mushed up cereal
of sort for feeding infants
too long in the pram.
I suffered the parents to grow up

and now have no time to wait for the children.


The Mind’s Sampler


(Do you ever wonder about. . . .

The Martha(s) will serve and clear tables and see to the children.  Mary will also do what Mary(s) do. . . .puff up the pillows and sit at the Master’s feet.  It is a tenuous thread that speaks of a psychologically explainable condition.  Yet it does raise the hackles.  It should as long as it is human skin one wears.  And when one does not. . . the rest will be observable.


It may all be illusion. . . but in this particular reality, illusion has a substance one must work with.


Getting lost in great crowds of people, great numbers, gives one a sense of immortality.  The great numbers are proof that the world continues to spin and as long as we are on the carousel and keep putting in our nickels, we too go around.  But comes a time out of sheer exhaustion even the make believe ponies stop going around.  And the time for sifting and sorting from too long on the merry go round has to be done.


The true state of genius is having the courage to say I don’t understand and ask for an explanation.  Understanding the basic premise makes it easier to build the pyramid as you make your way up.  The broader the base,  the easier it is to build on it.


We are all safe.  All safe.   The journey is not a trial run.  It is for real but like a class on the way to graduation, it must be passed eventually.


Kiss the moon into Being.  It serves to fuel the hot rocks of the day.

Photo by John Holmes


Stop it! Don’t Hurt Him! He’s My Brother!


When much is given, much also is required. At what price, at what value is understanding?

The Teacher

As I look back upon the growth areas of my life, I still see the influence of the child within me. My family alternated between deep affection for me and a perplexity they could not reconcile. Mother often blurted out that she did not know where I came from nor where I got my ideas. She certainly did not teach me!

The clapboard house we lived in had a wondrous mystery about it. As an ethnic family, we lived in the cellar. The upstairs was kept for ‘good.’It was whitewashed with a large furnace in the center. Every one of us had our corners in what I see as a huge area. Things were done in a certain way and values kept. Within the nooks of the cellar my sister and I had a huge double doll bed our father built. Our mother made the doll bedding. Against the wall of the fruit cellar my brother closest to my age had his space. A long table braced against the wall held all his balsam models. They hung from the ceiling with wires and smelled wonderfully of wood and glue. One’s head became quite light and one had to come up for air periodically. This brother spent hours over his models with the sensitivity of a surgeon.

The balsam was my undoing and his. I would sneak a piece now and again and happily munch on the coveted pieces of wood. I can still feel my teeth gently smashing into them for the sheer pleasure. I would be on the lookout for these rare strips on the floor. But one day in a fit of craving I walked off with a section marked for major work. Possibly a wing or side panel. When my brother found out what I had done his anger was monumental bringing tears and loud voices from everyone. He was in hot pursuit for revenge.

Suddenly my father appeared with the cat o’ nine tails. My father held it and tried to hold onto my brother. I saw what was happening and screamed the scream that rang through the house and the door and into the ethers and no doubt rings there still.

‘Stop it! Stop it! Don’t hurt him! I love him. He is my brother! He is my brother!

And my father did not know how suddenly he turned into the bad guy trying to keep his daughter from being killed by her brother. I don’t remember that the cat o’ nine tails ever came down on my brother’s psyche but it did on mine. I swallow slights and injustices and they lay like iron allies in the pit of my stomach. My behavior was that of a thoughtless sibling but the fear and horror of my brother’s punishment was that of a god witnessing the violation of another god. I could not articulate it of course, but I knew intuitively.

My words? Torn from deep within, perhaps screamed lifetime after lifetime but elevating that portion of us in flesh.

Stop it! Stop it! Don’t hurt him! He is my brother! He is my brother!

The Teacher said that out of the heart’s abundance the mouth will utter its words. Innocently out of sheer frustration, out of love, out of hatred will come the heart’s abundance. What we grant to ourselves, we must grant to others and sometimes in spades.

(Excerpt from The Last Bird Sings
for $15.00 plus $3.00 shipping)


Journal Entry Excerpt


Excerpt from a journal entry

I write and say. . . . .

It is necessary for me to ask why;
otherwise the peeling of my heart has no purpose.
Why implies a reason, doesn’t it?
So don’t start by saying it is not enough
just to live and breathe and see and feel the anguish
of hurt that should never be;
implying that this life and earth are not enough
in themselves because we might get too lazy?
I can’t believe that.
Just looking and feeling the North wind is enough
to stir my senses;
to lift me from my bed to get on with living;
to raise the dust out of corners
too long neglected and lift
the filthy and sweaty labors and point out
that these are gifts of life in themselves.
These are the beauties along with the first snow
and the harvest intact and sealed and the
presence of souls who find a reflection
of what they hold dear in the eyes of an Other.
These are so.   I say these are so.
I say because such a world exists
and there can be a large measure of happiness
in just such a world.

Or you think what I see is a rose in a field of weeds?


Needlepoint roses gifted from Diane Rybacki


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