Archive | Introduction

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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