Archive | Introduction

Psalms of Love. . .

This is the day I have long  awaited.  It is the day I can say to my family and friends that the book called Psalms of Love is available on Amazon.  The Kindle is available now and within a few days,  the paper back will be available if not already.  It has been incubating for all of my life it seems but with me and my philosophy,  it happened yesterday.

It could not be without my family.  John and Lori provide a wonderful home for me  with an awesome workroom without added pressures aging cannot handle nicely. Tresy, (Joe III) has formatted and done all the fine tooth combing that publishing requires and soothed my worries about being an irritation.  And Claudia has again done her talent justice by her fine art in the midst of  life intervening.   All done while their lives continued with work and upheaval of construction, moving, changing addresses and Emma E. making her debut in the midst of the moving weekend for her parents.  With civil liberties enhanced,  chaos abated, Emma E. still came home to loving arms.

Psalms of Love readers will question the poetry according to what they hold as their philosophy or belief or their religion.  Others will simply want to know what I smoke.  I will have to say as those in the past have said,  we live our reality. The habits of our days create the world we work at.  When it is said that by their fruits you shall know them, it would be wise if we take that maxim to heart.

Because it is so.  Those who have known me, or have  been following my blog for the last seven years,  know that I speak my truth.  When I said I crashed the gates of heaven,  it is so, metaphysically speaking.  Otherwise life for me would have been impossibly difficult.

We come into the world as the twig already bent.  There are those who wish to believe that we are a clean slate, but a history we already are.  Some of us remember our history and others will say we have a vivid imagination.  All it takes is to listen to the newborn as they master the language they are born into.  They introduce a vivid history.  The book no one ever reads but refers to with the question in the vernacular,  what’s it all about Alfie,  should ask the newborn as the good book says.

I truly hope that in reading this book of poetry, Psalms of Love,   sweeping across your heart will be an awakening that you too are known.  And with the journey begun, you will claim and be claimed.  To what will be your surprise.

I am grateful that we are not abandoned.  I am one of the fortunate ones knowing this.  It has been with this support I have been a contribution instead of an impediment to life.  My life drove me to study the why of man and led me to the why of who I am.  A life of independent study is not lightly chosen.  The rewards are seldom tangible but with hindsight, priceless.  No dictionary on this Earth has words to tell what it is to be known.  And to be of account.  The gift is matchless.

 

illustrated by
Claudia Pontarelli-Hallissey

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I Wish It For You. . .

There comes that time when night falls unto itself and one says I call it a day.  It is time for the night air to wrap us in its ambience and for us to taste of its elixir.  It is when memories are called upon that feed the soul when lives were their richest in love and deeds and hearts fit the space designed for it.  This is private time for the divine within and the who I am.  Specifics are not necessary but the feel and fit are.  I wish it for you.

 

 

Inhale Deeply. . .

Inhale deeply the night so that
you will remember
the freshness that comes
with the beckoning dark. . .

And the stars
leading you to a place
of warm retreat. . .

Melancholy soul,
even the heavens
pale beneath your fatigue.

Breathe deeply
and consider my love.
It comes from a world
we hold in our hearts.
Go.

Begone, into the night where the heart rests.

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My Dawn of Tomorrow. . . Emma E.

 

Amid the noisy fever and unrest of the national and international worlds seizing our attention and wanting to be in our prime time, our lives must be lived with special consideration to what we must do something about immediately.  And immediate was the arrival at the end of November and starting the holiday season,  of a person in our midst demanding our concern.

She was a bit of humanity whose 1 pound 12 ounces complete required the best that our scientific knowledge of this world could give.  She had parents, grandson Harrison (Joseph IV) and Merideth Hallissey and the rest of family and friends’ immediate focus.   Embraced we all man’s earliest known connection from where we emerged and directed heavenward from where she came, were prayers.  The Ethers were inundated with our thoughts and pleadings that this soul whose arrival was at best premature at 11 weeks made her wisest decision to choose us as her family.

We are pleased with Emma Elizabeth’s progress.  She has many mountains yet to climb but is now  at 3 pounds and doing nicely,  thank you very much.  She continues taking our thoughts and conversations with her in our invisible worlds of which we know little.  But this grandmother great continues with her lectures to this giant of a soul whose presence in mind is a constant in my now physically limited world.

She has inched her way into the hearts and lives of all who care for her.  She is a marvel and mystery of how we as humans do this marvelous creative act of bringing into our world another, hopefully the best of us.  One who has the ability of changing and making a difference that will enhance our lives in ways we cannot envision.   In every act of creation there is a saving grace.

My aging mind cannot find in its capacity the ability to remember where I have read something that stays with me.  I tore out of an insert in a newspaper what a social worker by the name of John Chaillot said.  ‘You’ve seen a lot of things but the one thing you haven’t seen is tomorrow.’  I thought, oh my yes.  Much I have seen in my nearing the century mark but I haven’t seen tomorrow.

Emma E. represents tomorrow to me.  This bit of humanity has taken prime time and she must be established.   The curtain opens and she has burst on the stage, full of promise.  She is my dawn and only the dawn of tomorrow.

photos sent by Grandfather
Joseph Harrison Hallissey III
taken by parents and staff

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The Mortgaged Soul. . .

Taking Time. . .

You say that it takes all your time to do what it is you do.  And you are the only person who can speak from that point of knowledge knowing what is required.  But we were all born doing reference work in the Talmud which teaches that the purpose of life is to learn.  And we must.  And we do, though not all at the same rate. 

In this life much is expected of us we think.  And with so many distractions, it takes longer and longer to maintain a just quality of life.  We know we cannot unbid what we have committed ourselves to.  Therefore it behooves all to choose with some knowledge what becomes our priorities. 

The privacy of minutes becomes non negotiable, except where life is in danger.  In this world where cultures are changing, it is imperative that talks ensure the fair exchange of work and accountability.  Otherwise we run the risk of bankrupt lives and mortgaged souls.  And we are an aging populace whose futures already are written on the walls.

Mortgaged. . .

Our hands brush the sleeves
of our long coats harnessing
our bodies’ warmth. . .

And meet and twine fingers
giving strength long lost
to the business of living.

The busyness of lives
succumbing to the details
of days usurping minutes
not claimed , hungry
for times floating loose.

Wise is the one hugging
closely as breath to breathe
what surrounds
the body as private.

Mine! the toddler shouts,
as he grasps what is his
loudly with force
to claim ownership.

Mine, man whispers as he
clings to the privacy of minutes
not already claimed by
the interminable needs
of the innocent.

The mortgaged soul has
to replenish his own needs
before offering more

from the well running dry.

 

primitive art by Veronica

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The Road To Damascus. . . .

Just One Time. . . .

All it takes is one cosmic experience and your life is changed forever.  Just one and either you will run down the street in your altogether and the men in white coats will take you away or it will alter your life  so that even you won’t recognize the words as coming from you.  Let alone the rest of your circle.  Because you will walk with one foot unalterably planted in another world and your perception of this life will take on proportions never thought possible.  And you will speak  hesitantly but you will work with an attitude that tells everyone that you know how important it is to do what is right. Never will there be half way measures again taken and never will it be done catch as catch can because ‘it don’t make no matter.’  Because you know it does and if this beloved classroom is to continue as it must,  you know now that what you do matters a lot.  We will from this day be held accountable.

The cosmic experience will differ with  each person.  And it will happen,  it will.  Sometimes it is just a glimpse that has you gasping and turning white, or a voice from a somewhere you recognize and have loved,  or a thought inserted that stops your heart momentarily.  Any number of  things not pertinent to the moment but meaningful.  And meant for you.  For you.  It will be a beginning and you will be on an inner journey that will take a lifetime.  You will be on your own road to Damascus. . . my heart goes with you. . . .

The Road To Damascus. . .

And Paul,
on the road to Damascus,
unaware of forces pulling
at his thought
was none the less surprised.

In the privacy of mind,
how could an invasion
of thought not his own
be in conference?

So it is,
in the wars of the visible
and invisible worlds,
the supremacy for power
does not stop.

Our worlds! Claim the gods. . .
My world!  Claims the pilgrim.
One in partnership
till man tasted the lust for power.

Lest we lose this,
the best of all classrooms,
brotherhood is still the dream
and our hearts still too unripe
to embrace its benevolence.

But its power
of magnetism still attracts
what prompted this dream
that catapulted us

to give search to the meaning to the why of us.

 

 

art by
Claudia Hallissey

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The Light In Our Hearts. . .

We carry the Light in our hearts
and it reflects in your eyes.

You carry the heat of its flame
and we both are warmed.

Silvery, silvery night,
piercing as the child’s cry
cuts sharply into complacency,
peace-ing the soul;
unerringly slipped
into a world of nights
to make a difference.

The Light and Flame linger.

Do you see what we see?

 

(The candle was another effort in the late ‘70s when I started the Christmas cards when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  They were still done with materials at hand and what I was limited with time and funds.  What was in abundance was emotion.  It was a time of upset but life does in its minute ways to compensate.  As I made these in the late hours of the night much was igniting my inner life.  In ways I can hardly believe, I was a mystic still in those days of hectic secular life with its complex issues to deal with.  In retrospect,  I lived it all and did everything I saw to do but in innocence did not know what I was truly doing.   Uppermost was the intent to create memories that would sustain in spite of circumstances.  This was a need as I saw it.)

 

 

 

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Tangible Slices of Memory. . . .

This was from the box of forget-me-nots that I couldn’t part with.
This was the first Christmas card I made.  With whatever I have gained in computer literacy,  I have been able to restore a reasonable semblance of the faded copy I was able to unearth.  There was no discretionary income to spend on materials, so I used what I had on hand and could garner out of the slim household budget.

I wrote what was in my heart and what I wanted to share with those I cared about.  It amazes me still that there are responses so poignant when something touches people.  And I keep those in my heart pocket.

It taught me that when given from the heart, response also is heart given.  It cannot be otherwise or consequences to intentionally deceive under skilled rhetoric  has its own judge and jury to be confronted.  Our actions might as well be in stone.  They are not forgotten.  Perhaps the lesson should be revived?

Looking at the card now after so long a time,  I notice the Star Of David I hung on it.  Even way back then I embraced all belief because I was certain with apriori child memory that everything was God.  I stumble about what to capitalize because everything in life is Divine.  Perhaps I should Lock Caps on my keyboard.

(the following was the verse for the card)

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the wooly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past. . .

Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries
mince pies and cranberries. . .
crackling fires and laughter

And the sound of silence,
as love stretches through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.

As real, as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.

A promise, given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

 

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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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