Archive | Introduction

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.

8

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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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

2

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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