Archive | Introduction

A Sacred Leaning. . .

 

A Sacred Leaning. . .

When I  understood the meaning of the words begat and borne and unearth and wrote this, I wept.  It was then I realized that for me the poignancy of creating life was not so for everyone.  The school of thought then was that it was all biology.  Until we get to this time where to hold life sacred not only in hand  but in thought, will we see brotherhood of man come to Be.  We must teach our young that all of life has a sacred leaning.

 

 

 

 

 

NOT A BORNING. . .

It was not a borning.
It was a begetting.

They did not borne sons and daughters,
because they could not.
The Earth gods begat
brothers and sisters like themselves.
The fathers could not father
and the mothers could not mother.
The fathers begat brothers and
the mothers begat sisters.
There was not time for sons
and daughters to be borne.

Not time to teach the lessons procured
to bring about the enrichment of the desire.
Not time to search the elements to note
the tie that could not be untied.
No time to nurture the splendor
of the each to the each,
to borne to the Earth sons destined
for the name of their father,
and daughters destined for
the name of their mother.
There was not time.

Intricately the webs spun out
of desire inadvertently.
Caught in the web were principles,
long standing and well tested.
And dismissed.
Having no application amidst the fruits
of pleasures turned silken, they died.
And in their place came dogmas,
fully entrenched and circling
the heads of innocents.

Laboring to bring forth a beloved,
the woman labors.
And finds not a daughter
but another like her, well versed
by her own lessons.
Laboring to bring forth a son,
she finds another like her,
dressed in male skin.
She knows both well.
For already the lessons are well knit
into the fabric of man.

Unraveling the skein of life
she stands enmeshed in chaos.
He stands perplexed,
ruminating the exigencies of life.
But it is not as envisioned.
In the fragile moment,
when eyes behold the new life,
when hearts ache to behold the new spirit
destined to free the chains
binding man to servitude,
the Earth gods know.

The man sees another just like him
and is dismayed.
The mother sees another just like her
and aches.  For neither prepared themselves
to uncover what each knew and
could not release.
That begetting was easy to do,

but to borne meant unearthing.

 

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When A Thing Is Good. . . habits

 

 

When St. Paul had his experience on the road to Damascus,  it unnerved him so that he took a year off from his preaching to recover.  He of course had his groupies waiting on him.  When my world crashed and I was hospitalized,  the doctors asked me to speak to a large room of psychiatrists to answer their questions.  Would I?  I would.  Though I look back on that young woman of 35 and wonder her courage.  Few women have had a cosmic experience,  mostly men are quoted.  The nearest a doctor in that audience came to understanding was asking if I was a Rosicrucian .  I was not but understood the question.  From that experience I began peace-ing myself and learning.  I was the parent on premises with no time off and the children and I needed our world stable.   I think in learning about myself,  my desire for stability in the physical setting made internal growth possible.  My devotion and dependability in maintaining the household allowed spiritual changes their freedom. Only of late have these years been evident to me.  By keeping my eyes on the physical acts of maintenance,  the looming changes did not restrict me.  Meals to prepare,  vacuuming  needed doing,  dogs to be put out.  While the body does its due maintenance,  the mind  in conference with its Teacher soars.  And changes are wrought.

 

Habits. . .

The thud of the back door
as it swings shut,
the sound of keys
clinking to their place on the stairs,
tell me, even in my sleep
that you are home.

Small things noted,
giving rise to habits observed,
a sense of ritual
to a life filled with them.

We continue rituals
for without them is lost
our practise of life.
We continue to do those things
over and over,
for if we miss once,
we may lose us whom only we know.

And we do not trust ourselves enough
to know when a thing is good.

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We Don’t Junk Humans. . .

We Don’t Junk Humans. . .

People will always question the validity of one’s commitments and one’s purpose.  When I am questioned I can only say I see what is mine to see.  Regardless though of the mental and emotional garbage one carries,  there is always what someone does that has a redeeming value.  We must carry this thought in our minds at all times which is why we don’t junk humans.  There is always that redeeming factor.

Regardless of the excess garbage, there is that redeeming value of the commitment.  Where others are concerned,  there is a committed value which supersedes all else.  Here is a system of values based on the individual’s worth.  This worth he learns at the fireside, within the home,  before he leaves the front door.

With what he learns, each generation is either saved or not.  You cannot allow those to thrash in the sea of humanity neither having known love nor care.  This is necessary else you have a generation hopping in and out of bed looking for the lost father or the wandering mother who could not get out of their own way to tend to those chosen.

And we do choose because of the underlying value in each of us.  We wish to perfect who we are so in that honest judgment of ourselves, we choose to make good and right what we have not.

Just as in the underlying motion that keeps all planets  or worlds rolling,  the value beneath us all is the savory that makes the effort worthwhile.  Thinking heads may call it a benign motion but my knowledge leans toward good.  With gratitude I bow before the hard work of all Beings who work for the wellness of life everywhere.  For starters we don’t junk humans.

The Bards of Heaven

The gods have little to do about
the graying of the land
when shells explode and matter flies.

But in the homes
of compassion where love and
thirst for learning are never quenched,
these are the places
the bards of heaven check their hearts.

Too much too soon
it seems that life presents
its problems to souls intent
on games to be played.

So sorry we are for those
whose eyes intent on
greener fields have closed.
Maybe there comes a place
yet to be born in a heart
whose motive is one of purity.

to seek a nobler frame of reference.

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What I See. . .

On Different Perspectives. . . .

What is so apparent to you is not apparent to the Other.  To view with compassion is difficult when the vision of the Other is limited.  He/she would wish another just like them.  Just as you would wish to share your vision.  It is a common human condition and a psychological truth.  It makes good sense.

We would clone ourselves and in this way we would have the reassurance that we are just fine.  The insecurity that each projects is vivid.  Yet we know that if what one views is more accurate than the Other,  the perspective or vision is often disparaged.  If one can be patient,  time will confirm what one views.

Perspectives. . .

There is a need I see and
hurry to respond to before
calamity mounts and doubles the work.

You are driven by forces
different than mine and your gaze
dismisses the need I see.

Your eyes focus instead on another sight
which my eyes fail to see;
completely outside my frame of reference.

How is it our worlds differ so much
and yet are compatible enough
not to collide?

There is much to agree on;
much that has us separated,
yet even knowing this,

doubt makes us suspicious of others.
Worlds are born and remade by those like us.
We blur our edges to mesh smoothly.

We realize too late,
that in each head there is a world afloat
hoping for life everlasting.

Wars rage and people agitate
to fight ancient battles, to quiet ancient maladies,
but we are too old now, so pray,

they do not stir the ashes to bring forth another fire.
And on this we agree;
there are no more sons and daughters to spare.

Mothers and fathers are all cried out.

 

photo by Jon Katz

 

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Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

Oftentimes the greater picture is chosen to be forgotten because it is necessary to have the script as authentic as possible.  If knowledge were part of the picture, chances for the lessons to be taught would be hampered.  So love is as powerful as the anguish and the angst  in their teaching the veracity of life.  How to let go of the feelings to prevent the corrosion of spirit when the need is no longer present?  By love of who you are and what you chose to be part of.  The lessons may be hidden at the moment, but in time you will know how quite wonderful you are.  To have affirmed the life giving properties so others may live.

Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

What’s the harm in it?
one asks, sitting
in the sun, wind lifting
tired hair.

She answers, no harm at all,
with two old friends
breaking bread.
It is good to recall
once fresh dreams.

Everything gained they agree.
Lives lived splendidly
according to script.
Lives mortgaged knowingly
so the Other could know
their moment in the sun.
They needed to learn
they were worthy.

For us it seemed
we chose it to be
a time out for us.

We raise our cups
in tribute to the great plan
enfolding us, evolution.

Choosing to make this difference.

 

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

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This Valentine Heart. . .

It is a truth. . . . Sometimes we cannot improve upon a something that supports a truth and this is one of those times for me.   On this Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it.  One day it will be yours again.

It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are.  It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart.  You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars.  You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you.  Never were you abandoned.  Never.  This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart. . .

I lay my heart crimson in splendor
beneath the branches
on fresh fallen snow, open to my god. . .

Here it is I am, with all
that I’ve gathered, completed to form
just what you see.

The flakes have scattered
in splendid ways to carpet the floor
as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please
but handle with care.
Sorely I need a tender touch.

Life has tested me to rare form.
I worked it all like Job
and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart
laid splendid on the floor of the forest
but loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.

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A World I Cannot Place. . .

 

As we approach Valentine’s Day, I will be choosing some poetry from a work called Psalms of Love.  One chosen to begin is A World I Cannot Place, recently written but not yet included in the work.

Memory is a powerful tool we are graced with and it comes with questions that have many answers.  And each answer is a correct answer for some time and place.  I have learned that when I frame the question, in me already is the answer.  In due time the courage to confront the answer comes.

And it takes courage, for a life will have to be examined, in all aspects.  Some of it will be painful, some joyous.  And though it may take a lifetime to examine, with it comes Reason for Being.

A World I Cannot Place. . .

Glimpses, given of faces lodged
in the crevices of memory;
the jutting jaw,
the forehead creased with worry. . .
the eyes carrying love deposited
on an already overburdened heart. . .

I lean a tired body
against a gaunt one,
to absorb a strength
I do not own.

Who will shoulder my argues,
arguing with an unfair heaven
the burdens levied on us,
when all the work or good intentions
are for naught?

But the glimpses given are
of arms I cannot forget, even
in a world I cannot place.
These glimpses, glances coupled
with  love infusing me
shows I cannot forget what
I yearn for now. . .

Enough for me to identify
what I chase to restore the heart of me.
Enough it is to change me forever;
to give from that overflowing reservoir,
the run off, with the hope
that the knowledge would be mine again,

that once I was special.

 

Artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

 

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Will It Be Me?

Jane Roberts in the 60’s and 70’s when I discovered her and her Seth books,  was talking about quantum physics.  She didn’t call it that but Seth was saying that all time is simultaneous.  And she had physicists calling her because even then they were silently interested in what Seth had to say.

And she channeled Seth saying  there are probable selves, all existing or living at the same time.  That there are bleed through with some of these selves and I write about them in my poetry.  And I am aware by emotions mostly,  of something going on that concerns me.

Like at that convention we had attended when a public official came to me in Munich and said when we talked in Paris the week before I did not say I would be attending this meeting.  I had never been in Paris and told him we had not met and he became angry.  He said he held his esteemed position because he never forgot a face or who he talked to!

So I write.  Of this life and from other dimensions.  I am not sure from where my thoughts come  that I am aware of things and how they seem to rise to consciousness.

I had spoken about these memories only rarely.  It is why I was cautioned every time I left the house.  Be careful what you say in public I was told.  I have since made friends with myself and now share my histories.

Will It Be Me?

Pulsing my perimeter are doubts
raising hackles to be heard and its twin
demanding not to undo. . .

Perhaps the only order is what we create
with rumor telling us that the world
was created for art’s sake. . .

There are brief, shiny moments where if I were
brave enough I would take my leave but they are
so rare they quickly disappear like a poet’s dream.

Could it be done where I would be
whisked away to that place farther than
the sun and closer than the moon?

It will be an emptying that fills to the brim,
a conversation with no words, hearing the cacophony
of silence and a chorus of angels pulling me home.

It will only be at that precise moment.
Every entry and every departure is a precise one.
How many came and how many will depart?

I formed the question only because I know the answer.
The pulsing is there and with it a haunting
that the answer pulses.  If I reach out, it will be there.

If I reach out, will it be me?

 

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

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When The Fir Tree Stood. . .

There will be those who question whether it is my memory of having lived a life or many during the formation of this Earth or whether it is genetic memory passed through the ages and lodged within my mind.  Or possibly a parallel life living in the capacious present since all time is simultaneous as the quantum people say and is happening now and mine to pick up.  Does it really matter?  What it has done to me in my life with my perspective is make me very aware of my behavior.  What I have not wanted was to cause painful memories for someone .  It is a hard way to live but it leaves fewer heartaches.   To pull your actions through your heart teaches you a lot about yourself.  Probably more than you wish to know as you head toward the exit gate.

When The Fir Tree Stood. . .

There was a time
when the fir tree stood
proud and tall and
with its essence could
make us drunk.

It was a fair country,
somewhere in that cold land
where only the hardy
lived to tell of it.

We smoked the fowl
that became our meals
with the fish caught by
nets skimming beneath the ice.

The smells were of Earth
and its parts, crisp and
broken into shards.
The more of us were happy though.
We knew the needs of all
and our wants were few.

Somewhere in time,
we cast our lots and became
the favored people.
We think now of
the differences and wish times
could be for a moment exchanged,
if only to remember the taste of

a pure and whole sense of truth.

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