Archive | Introduction

For Sitting On The Porch. . .


For almost half of my life,  we lived in the one home during our marriage.  And maintenance was my responsibility except for big construction work which was hired out.  Every spring, staining the porch, (it is now called deck)  was mine.   And the first call of balmy weather had me with roller and brushes beginning.  It was an all day affair to get it evenly covered.  So the rest of the ritual was planting the hanging pots and barrels with the annuals. I stained the barrels and everything that was wood with Oxford Brown.  I loved the color.   The placing of the summer furniture completed the work.   It was a secluded refuge.

Early morning and dusk into evening were the best times for sitting.  Early morning for the greeting of the birds ready to acknowledge, by a brief halt in their singing,  my good morning.  But evening when I sat in the oncoming dark with my mind’s work in progress,  I was haunted by memories which kept me company.  Never feeling alone but accompanied by centuries of companions who stood and looked with wonder with similar eyes fastened on the sky.  Seeing perhaps what my eyes did now.


For Sitting On The Porch. . .

It is a night
for sitting on the porch.
The night is soft
and there is a breeze about.
Soft.  A love night. . . .
How could it be better?

Only to share with an Other
whose eyes see as mine do;
the shapes of the trees
against the darkening sky.
The maples are round
like balloons;
the irregular Tamarack
whose wispy needles
look like bare branches.

The feel of the night
like a caress,
a loving touch,
a whisper.

I was the night and all of my Self in it.


A Cosmic Experience. . .

From a past journal entry. . . emotions become a burden needing to be understood before they are shrugged.  Once understood they become integrated and no longer need to be carried.

To understand the fullness of humanity is the first step toward the cosmic experience.  When the feelings become more than the human body can carry,  the heavens step in and with one fell swoop,  open the understanding toward greater truths.

And those truths need to be examined and placed in context of the person who is exposed.

A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind

We would wish for much.
We would wish
for the sublime love
that was preached
from every mountaintop.

We would wish
for a mother’s love
to be there for the infant
and the father’s hand
to caress the brow of every child.

We would wish for peace
within the human psyche
and learning to be brought
to the dinner table
and the breakfast table every time.
And love to be served
as the main course.

It is much that
we wish for;
much that we yearn for.
But peace is designed
for the human in mind
from birth to the grave.

Bring peace.


photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.


With Your Name. . .

With Your Name. . .

From a past journal entry . . I seem to be aware of a depth this morning of a something that shoulders my weight and carries me.  That the words I speak have little meaning.  They are simply words.  And yet,  what I would wish is to reach down into an other’s pockets and find the stuff that is collecting there that is never brought to light. 

That there is a collection of gems that are never used.  And should I be able to do this, would the owner recognize these gems as theirs?

I don’t know.  I can already hear them, as with the children in camp  when presented with a shoe bearing their name,  it is not mine.  It has your name on it.  No, it isn’t mine.



With Your Name. . .

I spread the gems
on the velvet cloth
and see them sparkle. . .

Not mine, you say,
not mine. . .
but they came from
your pocket, I say. . .
I didn’t have to dig deep.

There is perseverance
with all of its facets,
in the smile of your daughter
whose cost took years
of work to satisfy dental bills.

And the nights of standing
in the icy breath of the north wind
at nearing the midnight hour
to satisfy the young hockey skater
whose dreams only
another parent or brother could understand. . .

And hours on end
to put food on the table into ones
on the run who would again
appear magically for refill
just as the last plate is cleaned. . . .

Not counting the diamonds
your work demanded
as you swallowed your fear to appear
at the breakfast table with confidence
to hopefully infect everyone’s day.

Spilling profusely,  I count
the gems before me and
know they are yours because
I reached down into your pockets
and find not lint nor fuzz
but a million diamonds sparkling
with facets shimmering,

with your name.


When The House Sleeps. . .


Mornings have always been special.  The sounds blended on the street when Princess and I walked; the lights in the homes spoke of early risers,  the occasional car with lights on.  The dog down the street spoke his urgency to get matters started.  There still is a benevolence to the morning which I would awaken everyone to feel.  It is a palpable part of the day.    Times are different now and the body no longer equal without the exuberance which greeted the morning.   Still though it finds me alive and in dialogue with the divine within.  We put the blessing on the day.


When The House Sleeps. . .

As the hour
creeps toward dawn
and you put on the kitchen light
for a cup of tea,  it is good
to know that others
walk the morning.

We walk in unison
those of us whom sleep avoids,
when the dream finishes and
the heavens no longer
are a soft bed.

We hug our robes
to take  the chill off bones
shivering in the hours
the house sleeps even
if we cannot.

The tea warms
both the hands and the heart,
while the dawn approaches
with a promise.

It is enough for us to know
we are legion and
take comfort that across
our half of the world
that cannot sleep,

we keep our cosmic half awake. . . .


Photo by Jon Katz


It Takes A Yesterday. . .


Scribed March 25, 1989. . .(Keep in mind the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous.  If it is difficult to accept I had to learn it to survive and  have consciously lived with it for well over a half century.)

One must of needs supply a history to give meaning to the day.  For when there is no history, there is also no Now, and certainly no future.  It is only with a history does the uniqueness begin to show and the ability to clarify that uniqueness and to be a positive influence must be because peace has already been made with that history.  (the teacher)



No Yesterday. . .

We don’t even have
a yesterday
when we forget the past.

And no use looking
for a tomorrow
because today
does not happen.
It takes a yesterday
to make a now today.

We can costume
our yesterday
and dress it up
to be fashionable.
And then possibly
we can walk together. . .

But I think
the proper thing to do,
if not courageous,
would be to stare
down yesterday
and suck the fear out of it.

Then perhaps we’ll have a today
as bed for tomorrow.
That assures a future only

if you are okay with that?




Where We Cook The Oatmeal. . .

In the many studies on love and goodness, what appears to be evident is that when one is aware of good and when one comes to the time to do good,  the choices are few to do other than good.  When you become better and better,  your options cease. 

Heaven goes one better.  When approaching sainthood,  the options are not there anymore.  And even if sainthood is not on our conscious agenda,  I clue you that it is somewhere in us.  These they refer as those who have made the light a beacon force in their lives.  And who in their secret thoughts would deny this,  that they would be less than a beacon of light?

When the mind is one with the god mind,  only for that which gives life  (and who would deny otherwise,  no matter the personal consequences?)  humanity’s progression is the only path to take.

Here Is Where We Live. . .

There was a time
when thoughts and desires
were simple and
fleshed out a life.
When rain on the windows
promised a day with a good book.

Commitments came with age
and options few.
A book became a luxury
with sleep non existent and
a nap became the respite.

Fewer options were the result
of choices,  and commitments
took precedent because
other lives were at stake.

Big lessons to teach and
necessary ones,  if the evolution
of humanity was to continue.
A trip to the moon and a jaunt to Mars
will be the children’s dream
but here on Earth is where
we cook the oatmeal

to feed the children’s dreams.


Painting by
Claudia Hallissey


Crowded With Saints. . . invisible


When I try to explain what track my thinking has taken in my life,  even as a child or a teenager when a peer said that I talk as if I am reading out of a book,  I am at a loss.  In the following excerpt from The Last Bird Sings,  Marshall,  the student is explaining to his mentor,  Felix,  a feeling he needs explanation for.  He is at the point in the story where having found the brothers  and Felix he feels finally at home, wondering why he feels as he does.   I have edited the segment.

Marshall thought for a moment.  His feelings needed some sorting.  He looked at Felix with intensity.

‘I cannot see it, but can feel it.  I cannot put a name to it but it is real. When I talk to the brothers,  each and together, I get the feeling that I am not just talking to them.  By themselves or altogether.  I get the feeling that there are great ones standing about listening.  I have the feeling that we are in the midst of saints standing.  Even now,  I have the sense that we are not alone.’

‘You are right, Marshall.  We are not alone.  And it is good that you sense this.

For too many people talk as if what they profess to believe has substance and presence and yet act as if it does not.  We would have you act in the knowledge that even the invisible has substance and intelligence.  And to act accordingly.  It would  help man to act to his best capacities and to elevate himself.  He would clean himself of the corrosion that hampers growth, his and all men.

He would open  himself to what is highest and best and be its reflection.  He would be able to judge behavior according to what is highest and best and want nothing less for himself or his brother.  But he must first know who and what he is.  And only in the silence,  Marshall, will man be taught.  He must go into the closet of who he is and listen.

You are right to sense the presence of others.  They are about and we are never alone.  We have not been abandoned.  We have chosen seclusion to accelerate our learning.’

Marshall listened, and tilted his head to catch all of Felix’s words.  Felix knew it took courage for Marshall to choose the route taken and his antennae were pointed to the heavens.

Marshall stood and then spoke.

‘It has all been written, hasn’t it? It was all put down somewhere, sometime.  That is what the brothers read and listen to, isn’t it?’

Felix shook his head yes.  He waited in silence..  There was something going on in this boy and would come forward.

‘There is some thinking I must do,’ Marshall said.  ‘There are questions I must put into words.  For some I know the answers and others I must feel out my answers.’  He turned and was gone.  Felix seated himself and closed his eyes and prayed the prayer of the select few who knew the power of words.

‘To the best and highest within me,  help me to choose the best and highest.  Amen and amen.’

I was fortunate to have a handful of friends in my life who loved me.    One in particular came to my home because she said she loved the feeling she had of being in a crowd of invisible saints. We were 5 in number of regular people  but she saw a roomful of saints.  We do entertain angels unaware, she one of them.    There are copies still available of Last Bird for $20.00 shipping included.


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.







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.



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.


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.


Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes