Archive | Poetry

And we go home. . . .

 

And we go home. . .

What will you do
when fatigue overcomes
and chores lay waiting and
heart and conscience say
you must speak to these babes?

The work of your hands
gives them a piece of you to hold
and a piece of your heart.
In it all will be gold.

Take to your rooms
before the midnight hour
born of this heritage which
bespeaks this lineage of gold. . .

Not easy to do now. . .
the body balks;
the physical could always be worked.
The other, the detritus
that has floated in this
blemished Sea of Tranquility
has been harder to handle.

It floats and escapes the grasp.
That is the way of the Earth’s Dream.
But we have carved a philosophy
out of the Earth’s hearth and heart
and given her ours. . .

and we go home. . .                                                                                                                

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In A More Perfect World. . .

There were just a few of us gathered when we were young and the talk was rising in enthusiasm about what a swath to be cut by the young on the political scene.  There was energy and ideas with a tail wind to push these things to fruition.  We would make a difference where our parents with old ideas and lack of idealism had done little.

I listened to these young parents and wondered who would be taking care of the problems at home.  I threw some cold water on the hot bed of enthusiasm when I mentioned that there would be brewing real needs unless there was an adult on the premises.

While they were out volunteering their time to be involved with those less fortunate,  their own were left to their own devices and would become the work of other agencies,  such as the hospitals and the police and the after school clubs set up for the troubled.

You are of course on the circuit doing good and your own house is falling apart.  Volunteer your time you are told and your own problems will appear small.  It does not occur to them that with time devoted to the home and its young at dinnertime and afterward,  the troubled times would disappear.   That children of one’s own are infused with the virus of learning when the parents present themselves as role models.

Here too,  to love what you have borne to you and want for a richer life,  not in material ways, but in depth and meaning and rich in emotion,  means that this deep quest must be borne into you.  I have heard many in my generation say offhandedly,  what’s so great about having babies, every body has them.

To them I would say, don’t have them.  They deserve what I see in the face of my grandson holding his infant daughter.  Borne in him is the deep quest and his heartbeat will assure her that he will do his utmost for her.

In a more perfect world, every child would be born into arms designed just for them.  Even if you had not known such arms, your heart tells you what you wished for.  Make it happen.

It Is Said. . .

It is said that the heavens
care not what goes on
the world stage.

It is too late to change
the outlines of a world gone mad.
But here. . .

Within four walls are children,
eager to eat of the bread
of the gods to feed hungry minds.

Those the heavens note,
for within these walls is the outline
for peace on the next stage.

And here, the nurturer, the feeder,
will be given what is necessary
to begin the new world;

the brotherhood of man,
that could not be dreamed
with the old man’s dreams.

 

 

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On Wings Of Hope. . . .

Once Covered With Dreams. . . .

Some may think there might be no choice on anyone’s part for any thing.   All things may be a matter of destiny.   Many think there are choices in all avenues.  But supposing there are no conscious options.  Supposing conscience already speaks on issues and there are no options.

But it is too much like work to think it through.  It seems with today’s role models it is better to form a gut reaction with no thought accompanying; that it may end up being nonsense is a fact.

Fear speaks through them and as time narrows its focus someone in their circle of beloveds will be caught in the crossfires of their fear and what then will they do, be it the very bias of what they think, gay choice or gay marriage, unplanned pregnancies or physical or emotional abuses?

Those of narrow thinking we know.  Too many times when voices carried anger I couldn’t speak without my voice carrying tears.  Yet silence often carries assent.

When I look at who causes the violence I think they also were loved at one time.  Brought into this world and fussed over and loved and no doubt covered with dreams.

Not going further than the newest greats or one of the many grands may be the child in the moment of courage who tells us that they always knew they were different.  Will we strike out and say you are not mine?  What will we do when the love for this child strikes us where we live, in our heart?

On Wings Of Hope. . .

I gather the day’s allotment
and present myself as altogether,
looking for your eyes
to shine with approval.

Spearheading into the day
with a visual containing
all that I hope
spells success in any language.

There is much riding
on wings of hope and I will know
the minute I see
your eyes fill with love

that I am cherished.

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Show Me. . .the highest altar of the Mind. . . .

It was only in rereading the journals for August of ’17 that I happened to come across these words.  Oftentimes I don’t get back to entries long after they are written.  And then I  am often humbled by what is given.  I am in the midst of this mental conference and when fatigue overcomes,  I shut down.  When I go back,  there is seldom memory of what transpired.

When I put these words into format,  I can only say it is a condition of the heart and there is no reference.  These words have come at a cost that is prohibitive.  I read them over and tears form another ocean.   A favorite doctor counseled and wondered the mystery to him of mystics in modern times and how there had to be something invisible that tied the hearts of one to another.

Proximity to like minds would disturb the ongoing work.  It is often a life of isolation.  It is tolerable because solitude becomes the favored state when rejection accompanies the mystic.  Earlier times were easier on them because seclusion was more prevalent.  Laughingly I have said to my sisters of the cloth that no doubt I would be in their convents but heavily sedated.   Or in the monastery working in the vineyards.  Alone no doubt.

I posted Show Me in late 2017.  Speaking of prayers sometimes seems like public autopsy while one is still breathing.   But it is a way to show a route that heals the dichotomy within.  And we are in need.

Show Me. . .you are the more. . .

When I see you in your prayers,
you pull from me something akin
to obeisance of the highest kind.

I drop to my knees and want
to pray with you to the mighty of
All That Is who garnished upon us all
the sweetness that would turn the hearts
of stone awash with tears.

Tell me, how do you enter that
holy place so quickly when
your thoughts begin with the heart
of the child and take them to
the highest altar of the mind?

You almost take the highest and best
into yourself by some turn of mind
and close out the rest of us
like the door closing against the
onrush of minor thought. . .

How to get there?
Who lets you in?
Somewhere you go that closes us out
but yet. . . .your love includes us.

You step over what is invisible and
takes you to the promised land
which is not a place but a condition.
You know of what I speak and so do I.
I want it for me.

Because you are the more because of it.  Show me.

 

Journal entry August 27, 2017
(primitive art is mine)

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With Full Knowledge of the Song. . . .

The Last Bird Sings. . .

They said the pressures were such
that would have put a pipe fitter
under the foundation. . .

I, naive, thought when I heard
that she would not know
she was between waxed sheets
under a hot iron thought
they talked of you. . .

And I, obviously impaired of intelligence,
continued to listen to your tales
of woe and wondered
how you kept your sanity. . .

How did you do it. . .
and still found the joy in the antics
of people devoid of reason?

Aahhh, that is the secret
of vengeance is mine
saith the Lord. . . .

I will put joy, He said, in the laughter
of her who comes to your door. . .
and exuberance in the attitude of you
whom I call on to work in the vineyards,
you, whose body cannot
tolerate the taste of the vine. . . .

And I will put the song
in The Last Bird who will have

full knowledge of the song he sings. . . .

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

((I have some copies yet of The Last Bird Sings.  If you are interested, contact me.))

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The Cut Of The Cloth. . . .

 

Several years ago I wrote that an elderly once said to me people only know what you tell them.  My reaction was a gasp! because she believed that.   There was no exposure to people more knowledgeable or more observant than she.  Although she would adamantly vow her God knew everything and nothing was forever hidden.

Such was her focus.  And many can relate to this thinking.   Huddled with their own preferred prejudices and religious dogmas which forbid dabbling with so called devilish dervishes, much was undisclosed.

With many who think that minds are private and secrets can be bought with hush money, there are still those who cannot fathom the innocent bystander upon whose head thoughts settle unannounced.

These are the souls who take to the woods and live out lives in solitude, or with the natural world. Or simply close the shutters.   People cause fatigue to these innocents who carry information that has no putting place in their lives.  Besides, they spook people out.   Oh yes, they do.

They become vaults of knowledge with nowhere to dispense it.  People will say about them, ‘never knew them other than just in passing.  Kept pretty much solitary.’

I have written poetry about subjects like the above and am surprised when I come across the poetry years apart.  But interesting are the perspectives and sometimes I find they change little.  Many Truths was written in 1986. . . .and Overheard was in an involved work of last week.

Many Truths. . .                                               

I tell you true,
if my eye caught it,
a picture has already
been taken of it.

If I know something
I can tell you true,
the neighbor down the street
or the unknown one
around the corner,
knows of it also.

If my ear has caught your cry,
or the deception in your words,
the heavens have heard the cry
and the deception, however layered,
in time is betrayed by you.

If my song is sung,
the heavens and my god
have heard the melody
and whipped the wind
and carried the joy or sorrow
to its Source.

It has always been so
and this I tell you true.
The difference?

I, now, know it.

November, 1986

Overheard. . .

I hear them say. . .
I cannot follow
what she says all the time. . .

And you say. . .
I don’t either all the time,
so don’t blame yourself. . .

But then I hear. . .
But she says things I know are true
and I think I only
could know them. . .

And you say. . .
that is why she can say
what only you know to be true,
because she has been
to all these places
we don’t understand.

And you say. . .
I can only wonder how long
it took all those doors

to open for her. . . .

June, 2018

 

 

 

 

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In Good Hands. . .

 

 

In Good Hands. . . .

I will invite you
to sit beside me
on my couch. . .

To lean into my arms
to wrest the fatigue
from a body
grown weary with age. . .

It will come to nothing,
this fatigue with aging
because the heart of you
is alive and well . . .

Alive for the world
you have prepared yourself
diligently with work, with love,
with patience. . .

How do I know this?

You invited me in to
have a time of repair of Spirit
when I needed. . .

to sup at your table
full of good talk with laughter,
at the fire with corn
in the one bowl I shared
with your sons. . .
to have sat to converse with topics
scraping the souls
of their transparency. . .

These were the times I knew
my choices were good ones
and the futures of my worlds

in good hands. . . .                                                       

 

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I’ve Taken Flight. . . .

 

 

A Conversation  . . .

You say. . . 
I’ve taken flight. . . . .

and I say. . . .
where can you go
that I could not find you?

And you say. . . .
farther than you think.
I’ve found me a world
so far away
that never would you
think to look.

 

And  I say. . . .
I step between worlds
all the time and find
I simply need to
adjust my perspective.

You say . . . . .
You have said that
before and I don’t know
how to do that.

I say. . . .
it takes many lifetimes to learn.
But each time a new direction
is taken. . .you make adjustments.

Ahhh,  you say. . . . .
Smart way to do it.
Each time a new direction,
a new adjustment.

I say. . . .
There is much space for travels
and many chances.   We live
in a gracious Universe. . . .

spread out beneath the overwhelming premise that All Is God.

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The Keys Of The Kingdom. . . .

The Keys of the Kingdom. . .

My good friend appeared at the door and said you have to learn to play and we start now.  Alas, another argument begun about our differences , proving again opposites can be friends.

It is my good fortune and sometimes a curse to have the ability to view and discern behavior.  Because I see clearly what is one man’s meat is another’s poison.

People approach work and play differently.  I watched our sons grow and in process changed attitudes.  Mowing lawns, chore but cleaning the garage, therapeutic with a ‘look what I found!’  Planting flowers with their Latin names an art and school homework eagerly approached as to subject.

With the youngest I looked forward to making a hockey rink every week after Christmas.  I happily stood in below freezing weather and spraying but 2 a.m. was my last spraying! I shouted!  I somehow related to my elderly neighbor who sprayed with hose and nozzle in the summer for hours.  There is something spiritual about watering whether ice rink or garden.

One inlaw daughter with her artistic talent makes brussel  sprouts look awesome.  Another can make tired furniture look new even with ongoing construction.  Coupling these details with their professional talents make these an extension of their work.

Where is learned the virtue of labor and beauty in the doing?  The magic of it all is in the heart.  It is approaching the place in mind that says all is play because the body is actualizing the mind’s intent and therein lies the beauty.

Fortunate you are if someone loved you that you with love are remembering and teaching.  The memory comes alive at sometime and we pay it forward.  Some have not known it but we can be the memory for their future.

A brother and I discussed this and he said sis,  you have found the keys of the kingdom, haven’t you?  There is no more than this in its deepest.  It is all art in the making.  My Mentor said that the fields are ready and the call is out for the vineyards.  There is virtue in the labor and beauty in the doing.

A Belief System. . . (an excerpt). . .

The answers will be forever hidden
in a place no one chooses to look;
the hearts and minds of those
who love this earth with passion.
Surprised they will be
to see in the palm of their hand

the keys of the kingdom . . .

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Around The Bend. . .

 

Today I sit in the midst of my birthday of 87 years.  It is quiet.  In rereading journals where I was told if you want a good book to read,  write it,  I am finding truth. Rarely do I remember if it was cereal for breakfast and therefore rereading the saga I wonder what comes next .

The Teacher asked in a September 2013 entry . . .you saw an event and caught it in flight and reacted and saw the lesson in the event.  Tell us how you do that. . .

Because I felt sorry for myself that day this was the answer. . . .(My spontaneity as a child was shanghaied because I was born seeing the thought and it was then engulfed in the larger picture with its application within life and lives and results following.

The consequences then run through but the spontaneity is gone and the moment lost.  The result, the lesson, the appreciation is deeper and the entire action is molded into a lesson and humanity benefits, instead of just the impulse of the person.

You have in me no game player therefore someone they say who spoils the fun and doesn’t know how to play.   Not invited to go along because I spoil the fun.)

Within the brackets above was from the entry.  I add, I think life is beautiful as is and needs no embellishment; the storyteller really needs the exaggeration. Games are often played to show superiority, king of the mountain syndrome.

Compensation is at play giving me ‘language sparring’ for diversion.  Great fun and like the poem following,  a surprise and a lark.  The response to Around The Bend was great so I run it again.  Aww shucks.   It seems I’ve run out of cola.

Around The Bend. . .

I was told you have stretched
your boundaries
as far as you can and the rest
will require another world.

You work too hard at this, he said.
Break the pattern because
you do not need more information
to underscore what you already know.

What good to understand worm holes,
and black holes and white holes
and time warps.
You work with them every night
when you flutter in and out
of worlds and know your way around
the bends of light.
You don’t need anything more.

You need a good stiff drink
of more than cola.
Love, take a bender.
You need rye, straight.

I say,  around the bend
there will be a hand,
someone to pull me up. . . .

around the bend will be a someone
to pull me up. . . .I know.

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