Archive | Introduction

Otche Nash. . .Our Father. . .potential. . . .

The two of them trusted me with what they were seeing.  My mother, transiting said I could not live in your world and she cried.  Stick with it as long as you can though,  she said.  There is a reward.  And David transiting asked how did you know to do it?  How could you go on living knowing what you know?  And I did not know that I did anything except what I had done before, in a previous time.  And I had three sons who were more than reason enough to go on living.

I listened to people and read what bodies were saying and what they were saying did not match what was coming out of their mouths.  Everything seemed a coverup.  One learns what the silence is shouting.  One learns the love by the strength of the arms around one.  It is a sign that is hard to hide.  And by the evenness of the voice that sings in the air and the throat that does not gargle its sounds.

A favorite poet whose God quotes quietly the things of comfort , I envy.  And mine who thunders and rolls heavily the boulders down the grade to make roads, allowing what?  Allowing what, Veronica?

Otche Nash. . .potential. . .becoming. .

In deference to one
who mines the doxology,
I am in awe of his soft acceptance,
his protestant soft ways
as he whispers his way
to the altar,

accepting as
the silent snow falling and
his God quietly  speaking.
And I in my army boots thundering
and falling on my knees
in my approach to my god
rolling and thundering in my head.

The Great God moves
toward a no ultimate anything.
In motion always finding its way,
his way, her way, our way is
what a Great God does.

I, in my hard soles and
muddy high boots and
overly large coat lumber with him
toward an unknown potential.
Is that why I cry?

Otche Nash. . .
of undergirding intelligence.
I mimic the noisy business
of attempting to find the
Potential you chose. . .
to be undisclosed, a yet to be
discovered arrival

at perhaps another Star.

 

photo by John Holmes

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Emma E . . .the best of blends. . . .

She said wait and I will get my hat on and be ready to go!  And her hat is on and she has her bag and is ready for fun!  For our little one who is the best of blends. . . like good coffee or fine wine, she is a sparkler.  Weighing in early last Thanksgiving time at one pound 12 ounces, she is holding her own bottle and her grandfather said that driver training is next!

I am fortunate to be her grandmother great though I have not seen her in this world.  I need escorts to the car in the driveway because my legs are as wobbly as Emma E.’s are yet.  Her legs will grow sturdier and mine not, to be sure.  Her life will be filled with awe, as mine continues to be.  Her complaints will loom large in irritation to restriction, as surely mine do.  Both of our heads know what we desire to accomplish, though the surroundings differ.  We both will do what we need to do for the greater good.

Thank you all for your good wishes, thoughts and prayers.  Good has no boundaries and we have been grateful to see our Emma E. responding magnificently.  Your wishes have been a salve for our hearts.

 

photo by Merideth,  mom
of Emma E.

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My Sanctuary, my Earth. . . .2018

My Sanctuary, My Earth. . .

What I found in the sanctuary of my yard, a church if you will,  and still do, is a pull, albeit a magnetic one, to a something that transcends the physical.  I function in the physical, but never seeing it in just a single dimension.  There is a height, a depth and an all embracing width that I try to gather into my arms.  You are in that embrace.

I have written where I see in a glance the essence as well as the result, the consequence.  It is admiring the garden and appreciating the gardener, seated at banquet and knowing its intricate preparation and thanking the farmer.  It takes away the spontaneity and surprise; both a curse and a blessing.  What it gives is a first rate conscience and sense of responsibility.  It has you working till you drop but chalking  few regrets with gratitude for life and thanking the giver for it.

You might ask, who cares?  What difference does it make?  One day you will care and to you it will make a big difference.  You are its prayer, its question and its answer.  In you are the answers to what your life means.  There are no other answers.  You are the answer.  You are the unsuspecting shoulders upon whom the answer rests.  You will be the answer to who cares.  And you will care a lot.

Our Hearts Speak. . .

As we enjoin the universal spirit
to entrust us with another spring,
another resurrection,
awaken within us the desire
to nurture the world
that has nurtured us.

Let our hearts lead us
to that place where
we intuitively cherish the mother
who feeds and clothes us and
gives us sustenance.

Let us not forsake our responsibilities
to those yet unborn but whose futures
we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiousity
about our daily world, remind us
that the bird’s song needs our
acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting
and the night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment,
speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth.
Let our love guide us to make beautiful,
to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray,  Amen, amen.
{scribed April 5, 1991}

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Come, Sit With Me. . .

The words to each will mean something different.  They will root in the heart, in the mind and have a life of their own with you.  At some time I hope, they will mean a something that answers what is now a question.

Our Time Is Now. . .

Listen to the peoples, listen
to the peoples.
One learns what the silence
is shouting.
One learns what is not said
when words spilling forth
are not true.

One learns of love
by the strength of the arms about
that do not lie.  I know, I know
it to be a sign that cannot be hid.

And by the evenness of the voice
that sings in the air
and the throat
that does not gargle its sounds.
No matter how smooth
is learned the persuasion,
how smooth.

Come, sit with me.
It is our time and it is now.
No matter the wait
for time impends its weight

and our time is now.  Now.

 

{painting was a gift of
my granddaughter Jessica,
who knows her grandmother well }

 

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Cost Commensurate. . .

 

 

What can be born and be borne?   Knowledge is that all reality is a preferential viewpoint.  That the dream is born and in it will be the
lesson plans inherent.  That with the lesson plans will be what we
need to learn and they will be borne within the dream’s boundaries
and the lessons will be carried.  We will be equal to their weight and
profit from them.  And we will grow and mature and do good and
the dream will be a success for this time and place.  We will do what
we can do. 

 

 

 

It Comes With Cost. . .

It comes with a cost.
Learning can rip the heart.
Let the words be carried
to the Ethers and
wrung dry of your tears.

You shout a language foreign
to the ears of him.  You live
nowhere but in your heart and
nowhere but in your mind.
It is time to go to that
small place and bless who you are.

Tears of anguish ask for
acknowledgement.  The words are
lost on the south wind which carry
them north and lost on the north wind
as it brings them south again.

Your heart is tapped deeply
revealing the Source of who man is.
It is time.  It is time.

It is time he knows this.

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Emma E. . . A song of joy. . . and Magic. . .

Song of Joy. . .

My joy is great in presenting this heartfelt bundle in her run for the roses.  She does nicely with wonderful parents and grandparents ready with arms open.  And uncles and aunts by relation and a hundred cousins and others by adoption.

She has reason to smile broadly and wink in secret.  She knows, of course, she knows what the secret is and who holds the keys.  We all wish we had arrived with such welcome and so much love.  We think what wonders could have been wrought, but we know now what we can give to each other.

And with open arms greet each other to assure a welcome when we meet.  Emma E. has already taught us all much.  She knows who holds the sparklers and knows also,  in her heart,  that she is one of the ones who holds that bit of magic out to us.

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The Invited Guest. . . .

We have those things that comfort and reassures us.  It can be a photograph or a painting or something bringing to mind a feeling.  It takes us to the place where we were all of a piece and peace.  I have many such things and one of them is wood. 

My woodworking days were of such quality that when I finished a project,  having carved or sawed and sanded and then waxed and polished, I would with great love bend my face to it.  Feel and smell the earth I love in it and know I will cherish this scent forever. 

What world taught this now female person to be a carpenter with so much love that when I picked up wood and saw and file I knew what to do?  Where to begin and how to proceed?  I loved those years of woodworking.  Humbling an idea and creating a something. 

I do not remember the lifetime but there was a teacher who gave me tools.    Those tools were courage to try and confidence to do, so the means manifested.  I learned ‘do and you will be shown how.’  The intensity of purpose was the prime ingredient.   The invited guest became my Mentor. 

The Invited Guest. . .

I once knew a good carpenter
who, with hammer and saw
and wood and file,
showed me how to build a chair.

I did and sat on it and
then decided I needed a table.
With hammer and saw and
wood and file,
I built a table and sat at it.

I knew I needed another chair
for an Other to sit on.
So with hammer and saw
and wood and file,  I built it.

I then invited the carpenter
to join me at the table.
We lit a candle and talked
and a new world was born.
How did I know

I first needed to learn how to build?

 

photo by John Holmes

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The Heart’s Excess . . .

 

‘The circles she made in the air went round and round and she said The Teachers are telling me that the only way to get off is to step off.  And we can get back on again. And this was the Earth she talked of.  She made circles with her hand while she lay in the bed, as white as the sheets she lay on.’  From the prose poem ‘at her bedside.’

 

The Heart’s Spillage. . .

It is the medicine talking!  His exasperated whisper may as well have been shouted in the  hospital room.  Let her talk, I angrily answered.  She is speaking truth.  And our mother in her near death experience proceeded to tell us what was going on and who she was talking to.

My brother left and the next day his wife asked what went on because he was an emotional mess.  He didn’t hear what would have confirmed his cherished belief that open arms of his god were ready.  At nearing ninety mother instead held herself accountable.

We have heard people say it is the alcohol talking, or drugs or anger talking.  And I say it is a truth they are saying, when it is the spillage of the heart.  When we hear adults speaking gutter language,  or  calling it locker room talk, it also is the heart’s excess with an insufferable wound.

I had six brothers with many friends and never heard language as on television with youngsters mouthing things with gestures we thought halted in preschool.  Want to know the far influence of thoughtless or gutter spillage of bathroom behavior?  Listen to the children who have television as their baby sitter.

I hung up the phone and my in law mother asked what did I find to talk about with our sons.  I said there are not enough hours in the day for all to be said.  I mentioned this to our eldest who answered, but we have been practicing all our lives!  And we had.  When did it stop?  At what point did we become tongue tied or embarrassed or insufficient to thoughtful conversation?

The book which sits for everyone to see and no one reads says the word is god.  The word.  What we speak, our  language is holy, sacred, what we use to connect our minds, our hearts, our souls,  in speech, in thought with what ties us to one another and our Source, our highest and best. Thoughtful consideration, who stole it or did we give it away?

Did I think,  I scribed one day,  that people would clean up their thinking if they believed that heaven would find their views worthy of consideration?

I ask, would it be worth the work?  24/7?  To find it the elixir of life?  Would you?

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It Is Life Everlasting. . .

 

 

In Memory of a last day. . .

In his last days before leaving Earth  David asked, knowing what you know, how could you go on living?   And I said there were three good reasons.  Tresy, David and John,  the jewels of my life.  Never to have known them?  That would have been my greatest tragedy.   Unthinkable!  There is nothing this life could give me to match the gift of them.  They have been my best teachers.  Thank you for choosing me as your mother.

 

 

When David Died

I say that David took the hands off my clocks.
It was the greatest gift he could give me.
I tire of running my life with a large hand and a small hand.
No time for this, hurry for that.  Do this now, do that before.
I hate it.  With a passion.

I want to immerse myself in time and swim in it.
Feel it around me yielding and yet holding me up.
I want to feel the eternity of it and I want to see my
house and yard at different times under the sun.
To be able to say that in the morning
this is precisely how they look.
I want the information stored in my Memory Bank
for those times when I feel bereft.

I want to see the moon rise and give way to the sun.
I want to see the rainbow around the moon
and say again, we are in for a big snow.
I need to revel in the mundane task
of shaking out the kitchen rugs
on the back porch and feel
the cold boards beneath my slippers and
the cold air stealing beneath my clothes.
I want to keep looking at the moon with a glance,
because no farmer stares at the moon too long
and say hello David.

And when I feel very homesick, I will again
as I have in the past, take my coffee
out on the porch and sit beneath the midnight sky
with the stars daring me to look up
and identify them and again

revel in this multifaceted existence called Life.

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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.

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