Archive | Introduction

In Universal Purpose. . .

The Ultimate In Universal Purpose. . . .

Because I was told in a million ways my unhappiness could be rectified if only I would. . . and the list was endless.  And the harder I tried and  longer I worked because it was love that gave constructive criticism I was told and believed, till I finally realized that the only difference I could make was within myself , changing me and my feelings.  The Teacher replied and I scribed in February, 1995. . . .

‘when passion is exhausted, wisdom begins.  It is only from having lived a life to the fullest,  having gleaned what you  have, that you can go gently into your good night.

Because you have worked on these things and questioned your Source,  you now are in an envious position making your times rewarding.  There is no need now to strive to change a world that requires individual change.  Since you have learned there is no mass evolution and long accepted this classroom situation, you know the envisioned paradise can only be achieved on an individual basis.

You wrote the promised land is in the heart.  It is not a place except as one strives toward greater understanding of the self.  And neither is heaven a paradise of cloud hovering.  It is of work and things to learn.  It will be of self improvement, self understanding and understanding of the greater god, the ultimate in universal purpose.’

And because of greater understanding of self and one’s Source, one then becomes extremely sensitive to Others in connection and commitment.  Understanding itself becomes two edged, both a curse and a blessing.  To live with the ability to understand does not necessarily make life easier.  Sometimes it only makes life bearable.  Endurance has a high value.  The greater question becomes then what can I do to love more?  Not the easiest when the irritations are constant.  Being human is a hard work.

Consider This. . .

What makes you think
we do not use
a worker who thinks
and injects new thought
in old ways?

What makes you think
we would let loose
the likes of you
in a world for frolic,
for nothing more than waste?

We look for farmers
for the vineyards,
for the fields needing seeds,
for food. . .
for thought. . .
for starving minds
as well as bodies.

Where we put you
is in a place of value,
of your talents,
of your loves,
of your sweet thoughts
feeding the children of all ages.

How else to sweep clean the Father’s House?

A Given in January, 2012

Art by Claudia Hallissey

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The Rose In December. . .

I started to make our Christmas cards when I couldn’t find a card to translate our hearts when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  Many of our friends over the years have kept the cards I have made.  It warms my heart to hear them called the Veronica Files.  My efforts in artwork have always been primitive,  but my poetry has been a Given when I knew not what Given was and I scribed.  Our memories, both painful and joyous create who we are.  I will share what I can find in the boxes of efforts I could not part with.  I awakened this morning with The Rose In December and thought it a fine beginning but could find only one card with artwork.  Still primitive but I hope my work will have meaning.

The Rose In December. . .

The first frost of winter
has caught the bud unaware.
But lo, the edges

are burned at the fringes,
closed tight and full.
The rose will bloom again

in December, I promise.
Look to the bush along the fence,
its roots buried, frozen.

The upright branch will sponsor
the blooming rose.
You will pluck it and know

I do not make light promises.

 

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Still In A Time Of Infamy. . .

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

My oldest brother Edward was 20 years old on December 7, 1941 and I was 10.  I will never forget my mother’s tears and lamentations when word came over the radio that Pearl Harbor was under attack.   ‘Matko Bosko’  (mother of god) she wailed.   Edward was in the Navy at Pearl Harbor.  We were a large family of eight siblings and concerning us was the business of clothing and feeding.  Any thoughtful considerations were done in the privacy of mind and never discussed such as world conditions or philosophy. 

Only when I became a parent on premises did I forge the thoughts that my concerns and battles were fought visibly and invisibly.  War itself was not the answer to man’s problems and never has been.  Scars are formed and are never covered even by keloid tissue grown to resemble normalcy.  These scars carry into generations and progeny still to be born.  And we are kin forever. 

Edward is one of the few alive from that war whose memories of this day are keen.  So are mine as that child of ten.  He will be sought for this day to speak for his time on that fateful day.  My memories will haunt me because as a mother who carried life beneath my heart and gave birth to souls who were part of who I am,  I will forever hold that war is not the solution for thoughtful humans.  Life is a sacred existence of which we are part of.  As thoughtful Beings,   our behavior through life on this planet Earth,  gives us the responsibility to use our minds for solutions which give hope to all in the Universes who observe us.  We are accountable.

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

So long to have to yearn
for times that show love
for what is ordinary.
The times where toast burned
while the children wrestled
with their cod liver oil.

Times when snow suits bulged
over sweaters that were designed
only as the outside shield.
But these tears I weep
to see young hearts leave home
forever are ragged.

The old men are sitting
in their three piece suits and
playing war games
while parents cry.
It was a lark for them,
these war games playing
king of the mountain.

And now the young leave
their homes of ordinary days
and ordinary duties.
For real guns and other weapons
of destruction so old men can
vicariously play their games
for a remembered thrill.

These young were not taught
to think of war as
real people killed for real.
They were games played
on hand devices to swallow time.
It was a surprise to them and
a heavy burden their hearts cannot shrug.
They call it post traumatic stress disorder.

So pardon me while I cry my ragged tears
still in a time of infamy.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Hunger For Knowledge. . .

Hunger For Knowledge. . .

The hunger for knowledge knows no bounds and the kind of acceptance which bespeaks the heart which no longer cares enough to fight for its own existence nor the existence of an Other will soon lose the fight altogether.

Caring is in style.  Nurturing is in style one way or another.  What is needed is the educated mind which will carry the argument complete with commitment and put priority on that which will sustain the life for humankind.

The greater picture is paramount to survival.  The importance of the microscopic family is only a version of the larger family of man.  The survival of the larger unit depends handily on the survival of the smaller one.  And our own action will depend on the latter.  And there are those for whom even this knowledge is evaded or hidden.

And they who know how much there is to learn are well on their way toward the beginning where mind is All.

Who I Am. . .

I am the dream
that came to awaken
the sleeper that was me.

And now I take
the utmost care
in harnessing the glimpses
of a soul in motion.

Somewhat tardy, I think
and I say in this case,
quite late.
I’ve waited too long.

And the dream
is no longer about
who I was but is now

about who I am.

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My Earth, My Earth. . .

 

How often have we said ‘it just doesn’t translate.’  Meaning that the nuance of the word is so important that when it isn’t there,  the meaning alters.  The word insensate is such a word.  The meaning of sensate means that there is an appreciation by the senses,  that what is perceived is beautiful and appreciated.  According to our dictionaries the word insensate means brutish, mad, inanimate or lacking in sensibility.  And what I mean when I use the word is that the depth of feeling is missing.  Small difference?  But in the meaning of the poem,  with what I perceive,  the difference is enormous.  Read the poem with this in mind.

 

 

 

My Earth, My Earth. . .

Though others reside,  it is my Earth.
This is how I feel where I live.
Do others?  I don’t know.

From a cosmic view this has to be
the most beautiful place in this Universe.
I can see coming back if only
for the first snow,  to taste
the cold air on my face,
the wind through my hair and
the breath of the elixir swimming
through my lungs.

Heady stuff?  . . . I know that.  I know that.

But to me the rest of the Universe
sits hot and heavy on my head.
Too much still with me
filtering through my senses to
make me altogether too conscious
of who I am yet.
Maybe only because

I cannot perceive an insensate body. . . .

 

Photo by
John Stanley Hallissey 

 

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The Breaking Day. . .

 

Not often do we find sunrise photos.  I thank Jon Katz of BEDLAMFARM.com for this photo which he so graciously lets me use.   Here in California,  morning’s sunrise can be counted on pretty much and often to our detriment as these weeks have shown.  Still, photos like these require a photographer to rise early to greet them and be in the right place.  This is a favorite of mine and says perfectly what I try to say in this Breaking Day.

The Breaking Day. . .

There is a texture to the morning
that I distinguish from
the silky drape of the night,
to the languid folding
of two o’clock in the afternoon.

I greet it with a welcome
and crisp breath that
will increase sharply my taste
of morning coffee.

The smooth touch
of the furry Newfoundland with
his wet nose give off a sparkle
of light in the rising sun.

I taste of the morning with its clarity
that I will miss in the
oncoming heat of the day.

But this breaking day I move
my arthritic fingers with
their numb tips and wonder where
the girl has gone who never gave thought,
not once, to the dawn that
would ever break unevenly
in her world.

Nor did she ever think that the magic
of her mornings would ever change,
and never knew of the Grace
that the Greater Heart would grant
her aging one,

to feel supremely blessed.

 

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An Observation. . .

Nowhere Else To Go. . .

 

There are  those who are quick to say that all of life consists of making choices.  And choices are made many times.  But what is not considered is that Conscience is a heavy determiner.  There are circumstances that prevent choices and options are non existent.  Commitment and responsibility are obvious reasons for negating personal preferences.  The road becomes narrower as one ascends.  Be compassionate before leveling a charge of ‘you made your bed’ at anyone.  One cannot know the weight of the world Atlas shrugged.

 

 

 

An Observation

You say. . .
What I see as your reflection
is not what you think.

I say. . .
I don’t only think but I see
this face I don’t know.

Her contours are strange to me,
speaking of an old one
who can no longer
remember another face.

You say. . .
Her light shines for me,
speaking of a road traveled
long and hard.  One that would
not be freely chosen unless
one loved much.

I say. . .
The road I traveled was mine
because of circumstances I
could not change.

You say. . .
Hard it was
though not for naught. . .
The derision is only surface
signifying a significant accomplishment.

I say. . .
It did not make
the face beautiful.
My eyes do not deceive.

You say. . .
Other eyes see differently.
And one day other eyes will be yours
and with those eyes  you will say
. . . there was nowhere else to go.

And nothing else to do. . . .but do.
And we will vouch for your authenticity

and share the awakening.

 

 

art by  Claudia Hallissey

 

 

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As I Watched. . .

 

 

My journal entry says it was a Tuesday when my world folded onto itself, the trees blending into oblivion and the screen folded onto itself.  I was in a place as close to a cabin in the woods as I could be.  I loved it.  It seems I have been a recluse in several lifetimes and in this one it still was an effort for me to mingle with others.  As the world faded from view for the last time, I felt within, whole, and that I could step over whatever boundaries were beneath me.  It was the way I entered my nights voluntarily and traveled.  I lost it then because the next I knew were burly men shunting me over a gurney and into an ambulance.  ER became a reality as did the next days.

 

 

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 to me, don’t move.

And time collapsed for me
and events catapulted 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.

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Another Matter of Trust . . .

There was a little exchange with an elder.  I said, but you told me this and I believed you!  That was your problem!  was the retort.  But why say it if it is not true?  And then the paradigm spilling forth;  ‘there is no one so gullible as the one who loves you!’  There was laughter,  indeed.

Over such a small matter as saying that when you come to Wednesday of the week,  the rest was a piece of cake!  And I believed. And I worked very hard being promised relief.   Wonderful exchange,  wonderful lesson.  And again in a manner deserving of note,  learned that no one is so gullible as the one who loves you.

The one loved needs to be trusted and the one loving the loved needs to know these matters are not to be treated lightly.  Trust must undergird all relationships of note or all else erodes.

(excerpt from the poem)

Trust. . .

What precious treasure
to compare to this?
What pearl or diamond rare
has seen its equal?

Who would not raise it high
for world upon world to see?
And guard with life
if this be asked?

Not often given, but rarely refused
by those who trust have earned.
A burden love has made light.

Trust is a burden love has made light.

 

photo by
John Stanley Hallissey

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With A Promise. . .

 

Fortunate are those who walk with their cameras at the precise moment a sunset images the evening sky.  And we are fortunate to have those photos in our libraries.  Most fortunate are we who have the intent of the photographer rising at dawn to catch the morning sky in colors unmatched.  Few are the photographers and fewer still the mornings to be counted on to arise in  the eastern sky with brilliant precision.  It is almost a game with the gods of how much do you care?  And with joy we are fortunate to have in our yearning a photo like this,  a treasure of Jon Katz’ discipline that brings him out at dawn  to capture the emerging dawn’s chameleon concepts.  And with his generosity I add it to my growing library.

With A Promise. . .

There will be a tomorrow
somewhere. . .
waiting in the sunrise.

Perhaps in the shadow
of the footprint
on which you stand
this moment. . .

Or perhaps in
the light of a morning
in a world not thought
yet into Being. . .

But you will have it,
earned by the tenor
of your days,
practiced diligently.

It will be met
with an of course,
having visited every night
and well met. . .

with a promise once again to reclaim Paradise.

 

photo by Jon Katz

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