Archive | Poetry

In Universal Purpose. . .

The Ultimate In Universal Purpose. . . .

Because I was told in a million ways my unhappiness could be rectified if only I would. . . and the list was endless.  And the harder I tried and  longer I worked because it was love that gave constructive criticism I was told and believed, till I finally realized that the only difference I could make was within myself , changing me and my feelings.  The Teacher replied and I scribed in February, 1995. . . .

‘when passion is exhausted, wisdom begins.  It is only from having lived a life to the fullest,  having gleaned what you  have, that you can go gently into your good night.

Because you have worked on these things and questioned your Source,  you now are in an envious position making your times rewarding.  There is no need now to strive to change a world that requires individual change.  Since you have learned there is no mass evolution and long accepted this classroom situation, you know the envisioned paradise can only be achieved on an individual basis.

You wrote the promised land is in the heart.  It is not a place except as one strives toward greater understanding of the self.  And neither is heaven a paradise of cloud hovering.  It is of work and things to learn.  It will be of self improvement, self understanding and understanding of the greater god, the ultimate in universal purpose.’

And because of greater understanding of self and one’s Source, one then becomes extremely sensitive to Others in connection and commitment.  Understanding itself becomes two edged, both a curse and a blessing.  To live with the ability to understand does not necessarily make life easier.  Sometimes it only makes life bearable.  Endurance has a high value.  The greater question becomes then what can I do to love more?  Not the easiest when the irritations are constant.  Being human is a hard work.

Consider This. . .

What makes you think
we do not use
a worker who thinks
and injects new thought
in old ways?

What makes you think
we would let loose
the likes of you
in a world for frolic,
for nothing more than waste?

We look for farmers
for the vineyards,
for the fields needing seeds,
for food. . .
for thought. . .
for starving minds
as well as bodies.

Where we put you
is in a place of value,
of your talents,
of your loves,
of your sweet thoughts
feeding the children of all ages.

How else to sweep clean the Father’s House?

A Given in January, 2012

Art by Claudia Hallissey

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The Rose In December. . .

I started to make our Christmas cards when I couldn’t find a card to translate our hearts when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  Many of our friends over the years have kept the cards I have made.  It warms my heart to hear them called the Veronica Files.  My efforts in artwork have always been primitive,  but my poetry has been a Given when I knew not what Given was and I scribed.  Our memories, both painful and joyous create who we are.  I will share what I can find in the boxes of efforts I could not part with.  I awakened this morning with The Rose In December and thought it a fine beginning but could find only one card with artwork.  Still primitive but I hope my work will have meaning.

The Rose In December. . .

The first frost of winter
has caught the bud unaware.
But lo, the edges

are burned at the fringes,
closed tight and full.
The rose will bloom again

in December, I promise.
Look to the bush along the fence,
its roots buried, frozen.

The upright branch will sponsor
the blooming rose.
You will pluck it and know

I do not make light promises.

 

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Still In A Time Of Infamy. . .

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

My oldest brother Edward was 20 years old on December 7, 1941 and I was 10.  I will never forget my mother’s tears and lamentations when word came over the radio that Pearl Harbor was under attack.   ‘Matko Bosko’  (mother of god) she wailed.   Edward was in the Navy at Pearl Harbor.  We were a large family of eight siblings and concerning us was the business of clothing and feeding.  Any thoughtful considerations were done in the privacy of mind and never discussed such as world conditions or philosophy. 

Only when I became a parent on premises did I forge the thoughts that my concerns and battles were fought visibly and invisibly.  War itself was not the answer to man’s problems and never has been.  Scars are formed and are never covered even by keloid tissue grown to resemble normalcy.  These scars carry into generations and progeny still to be born.  And we are kin forever. 

Edward is one of the few alive from that war whose memories of this day are keen.  So are mine as that child of ten.  He will be sought for this day to speak for his time on that fateful day.  My memories will haunt me because as a mother who carried life beneath my heart and gave birth to souls who were part of who I am,  I will forever hold that war is not the solution for thoughtful humans.  Life is a sacred existence of which we are part of.  As thoughtful Beings,   our behavior through life on this planet Earth,  gives us the responsibility to use our minds for solutions which give hope to all in the Universes who observe us.  We are accountable.

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

So long to have to yearn
for times that show love
for what is ordinary.
The times where toast burned
while the children wrestled
with their cod liver oil.

Times when snow suits bulged
over sweaters that were designed
only as the outside shield.
But these tears I weep
to see young hearts leave home
forever are ragged.

The old men are sitting
in their three piece suits and
playing war games
while parents cry.
It was a lark for them,
these war games playing
king of the mountain.

And now the young leave
their homes of ordinary days
and ordinary duties.
For real guns and other weapons
of destruction so old men can
vicariously play their games
for a remembered thrill.

These young were not taught
to think of war as
real people killed for real.
They were games played
on hand devices to swallow time.
It was a surprise to them and
a heavy burden their hearts cannot shrug.
They call it post traumatic stress disorder.

So pardon me while I cry my ragged tears
still in a time of infamy.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Centuries To Arrive. . . .

Centuries to get here . . . .

There are those of us who are sensitive to our inmost thoughts and often we consider them nightmares.  A favorite writer tells of his dreams that leave him unanchored.  They take his equanimity and disable him.  Like his, my journey for years left me with events that had no putting place.  Our memory banks are similar.  Children with bloated bellies and tears and clenched fists.  Sacrifices and incense and swords and hot sands in strange places.

I would suggest the library with its Metaphysical shelves as study for the saints and souls who trudge the inward path.  Books were my support because I did not find an Other to match my  path.  I could not share my nightmares with an Other whose survival depended on their soup bowl not being broken.

Who would understand falling into a limitless depth with shrieking voices on the way to sleep to be caught by strong arms and lifted into Light?  And when doors opened within the brain to hear music drifting with arias never concluded and the noisy games in the gym forever unending?  I am a generation older than the writer and it has taken a lifetime of footwork to realize it is a gift given.

There are reasons and all not brought to satisfying conclusions yet.  Enough though for this world with our finite brains to show others have  journeyed and written  to let us know they have gone the route.  Religions have not focused on the larger picture. Their eventuality will be the absorption into a greater spiritual reality. They are appropriate for this planet and its peoples on diverse paths with more narrowed focus and needing support.

The larger picture requires a stretching of the psychic muscles that seem to embrace what is considered bizarre.  Only so because trying to pull the greater picture through the narrow aperture distorts the vision.  Other world experience cannot be drawn into this physical reality with its boundaries.  They belong in the world they were dreamed.  You travel centuries to remember them.  Research them; you are special.  They are earned glimpses so take pride in your journey.  It has taken enormous courage.

Life Everlasting. . .

Without ears to hear, he hears.
Without eyes to see, he sees.
With heart he understands
the small musings
of this limited mind.

I can see, I say for this is mine. . .
only with how I perceive
this limited existence.

Fair enough,
for this time, I think,
but only for this time.
There will be other times
when it will not be enough. . .

And then I grow
unto his splendor. . .
I will be guided  unto his doorway
and I will be led . .

And again, I will find
my way home.
Again, I will be led
and there will never be
a final time. . .

It only begins, here and now
and again it will be

time to move on.

 

 

 

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A Chance For Love. . .

A Chance For Love. . .

Each time is a new time.
Cast in the shadow
of a rock, a cave,
or even a cove. . .

Simply set and
inspired by a rolling coast,
a sunset, a glimpse of
a new place. . .

New tidings of good cheer;
a glass of sweet wine,
robust, quaffed in slow gulps
but favored by a thirsty throat.
Ever new, ever fresh
as a new beginning.

New worlds,
hammering their impatience
with promises;
limited only by how much

we are ready to forget.

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The Uncovering. . . .

 

Teach The Lessons Well. . .

Again from a journal entry the Teacher speaks on evolution. . . in the evolution of genes,  in cleaning up genetic history, we talk of literally thousands of years.  But with emphasis not on the helplessness of man,  but with concerted thought and concerted direction,  there can be a manipulation of behavior with new guidelines instituted.

Man will manipulate those genes contributing to defective bodies with no question.  But the kind of manipulation that requires change in behavior brings on argument.  Man has been fed the cliché that says the only person you can change is yourself.  What he must realize is that by changing himself, he changes the behavior of all about him.

Behavior that reflects constructive change, reflects goodness and well being outwardly,  in every area of public and private life is a large morsel to contend with.  The change will be reflected not just in superficial dealings with each other but also in personal relationships.

We say make certain that in all areas there is a behavior that reflects the kind of goodness we choose to like about ourselves. Because of the courage required to come forth many are now speaking of insults to their persons for generations.  The revolution has begun and if fortunate, in time to save this blessed classroom from future horrors.  And we must teach this lesson well.   By example.

(I wrote the following poem in 1986 and know the full weight of it.  Please take a moment and read it carefully for the meaning is in the uncovering, literally.)

 

The Uncovering. . .

Written in the minds of men
are stories waiting
for the uncovering.
Skirting about,
rising through the surface
of parchment shielding the brain
from eruption, are memories,
waiting for recognition.
The memories lay in imagination.

Housed in quarters of familiar terms,
the storehouse yields what man
can comfortably accommodate.
Open wounds charitably protected
from untoward blows,
form reservoirs for occupancy.
Listing toward comfortable complacencies,
which have nested in protection
in an accommodating psyche,
the lessons will prove invaluable.

Couched in terms needing no explanation,
the thoughts will yield improvement
destined for the lot of man.
Singular in judgment, new to the thinker,
the thoughts will lodge immovable
and looking for completion.

The idea will find its home
in the minds of all men
and the revolution begins.
The learned ones will marvel
at the evolution in thinking
and peace with brotherhood
will slowly mark its beginning
in the house of one man.

Nestling in the home will be the children,
safe from untoward shock.
They will be remembering another place
where the promise was given.

It will be as they expected.

 

photo by Jon Katz

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Happy Thanksgiving. . . my heart’s gratitude. . .

How Much Of A Difference. . .

It was morning,
though the night still hung heavy;
the clouds hovered,
the sun unable to rise.

The children gathered for breakfast;
morose and angry,
heavy still with sleep.
Mother looked with unhappy eyes
and father, already delayed
flew out the door.

What could she plan
for this crew this night, she wondered,
as she scrutinized each face
when they exited.

That night the same faces
appeared to sup together;
hostile, unable to summon
the good things of the day.
Seated, they glowered
and the mother, with hope
passed the platter.

Have some love, she murmured
as she handed the plate to the eldest.
Puzzled, he helped himself
and in unbelief said to his sibling,
have some love.

And around the table the faces changed
as the platter of love was passed
and with a whisper bestowed its blessing
by each and every one.
The father then picked up a plate to share
and to his surprise murmured,  I pass peace.

And around the table peace was passed
to accompany the main course of love
and talks resumed and the world
was given another chance.

On a level we cannot enter,
we cannot know how much of a difference
it takes to make a difference.

Or how little.

(It is my favorite holyday.  I share my heart’s gratitude for your time and comments.  When time is the one thing we can share,  I especially am grateful for your gift.  I treat it with great care and reverence and hope I give something of value in return.  It truly is my heart’s gratitude.)

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A Need To Know. . .

 

In the sixties I wrote a poem called Resolution which ended with the following lines.

(excerpt from Resolution)

I have come into the Light
but what to do?
On the day I was one, I became two.
Now I am two.

What to do but seek and seek again
until I find I walk this earth

not godless.

And following ten years later I wrote having chosen the Nazarene as my mentor. . .

(excerpt from Cactus Jesus)

You said that when I knew you,
I would know me.
We are gods on common ground,
knowing we choose our own Golgotha.
Seeking your divinity,

I found my own.

(from journal entry October 16, 2015. . the teacher speaks.)  and the god within had a voice needed to be heard and accounted for.  You wrote those words a half century ago.  Yet you never tried to unwrap them because the need was not there for them yet and neither was there the courage to respond with a yeah, now  I am not godless.  You have the Within God and this has been the secret with the many. You have known of it for sometime and long before you were already talking about marching orders and that was when the children were small and needed the teacher mother on hand to give them their enchanted childhood.  You know even now that you were given the necessary guidance at the time.

We know the involuntary knowledge puts you on some edge of something.  Should you stand and speak for the god within what would you say that would be convincing?   Does the average person want the tyrant task master of your life who has been your goad for over 85 years?  Coupled with your mother’s jenny genes?  What of those who find that they can talk down the desires of that inner god and outplay him/her and quiet their conscience? 

I asked my friend Kath why she went to church on Sunday.  She said she hoped that what Jesus said was true.  Knock and the door shall be opened.  I don’t think a knock would be heard in these days of devices and loud noises.  I had to crash the gates to be heard.  There is a Comforter or a god within that is to be heard bringing to mind all we had forgotten to remember.  A friend laughingly said it was an argument as to what we remember and what we need to learn.  A need to know was my ohm and armor.  And what kept the bridge at a safe distance.

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Hunger For Knowledge. . .

Hunger For Knowledge. . .

The hunger for knowledge knows no bounds and the kind of acceptance which bespeaks the heart which no longer cares enough to fight for its own existence nor the existence of an Other will soon lose the fight altogether.

Caring is in style.  Nurturing is in style one way or another.  What is needed is the educated mind which will carry the argument complete with commitment and put priority on that which will sustain the life for humankind.

The greater picture is paramount to survival.  The importance of the microscopic family is only a version of the larger family of man.  The survival of the larger unit depends handily on the survival of the smaller one.  And our own action will depend on the latter.  And there are those for whom even this knowledge is evaded or hidden.

And they who know how much there is to learn are well on their way toward the beginning where mind is All.

Who I Am. . .

I am the dream
that came to awaken
the sleeper that was me.

And now I take
the utmost care
in harnessing the glimpses
of a soul in motion.

Somewhat tardy, I think
and I say in this case,
quite late.
I’ve waited too long.

And the dream
is no longer about
who I was but is now

about who I am.

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Taking It Personally. . .

Taking It Personally     . . . (we were having breakfast with a young friend)

From a journal entry after the breakfast. . . . the Teacher speaks . . . Your justification of man at the breakfast table yesterday proved a point.  The mate said that Jacob was not what you thought  him to be.  And you had said that you could only take your frame of reference and apply it to other people.  And if you endowed them with the highest and best that you knew and the depth,  then that was not such a bad thing to do.  If you generalized in such a manner then you indeed endowed them.  The young friend was surprised and his eyebrows shot up.  A nice gesture.  You are familiar with it.

You justified all men and hoped that someone would be around for your justification when you needed it.  Will you need to be justified?  You think all men do.  But will you?  Have you done to the best of your ability what you know to do?  Have you swept every corner of your mind?  Is there that which yet must be brushed clean?

Only you will know this in the days to come.  Only you will know it when you are pressed by emotions still to be filtered.  You think what yet?

Only what is ours to choose.  And if you choose nothing more, nothing more is required.

It is not an easy route you have chosen to do.  Nor is it one that most would find themselves on.  You take it all and then apply it to yourself.  You are said to take it all personally.  And personally is the only way to process information for any meaning to be applied.  It must be personal.  It must be meant for you.  If it is not personal,  you are a passer through. . .

From The Beginning. . .

Except in the quiet of the night
when the demons plague
the early hours and the babies
cannot sleep that the pleadings
are ignored.

It is when the ghosts trip the light
and hide beneath the covers with
the bodies that sweat.  And shake
and rattle the headboards. . .
It is when the praying begins and
the begging does not stop.
You know that as well as I. . .

We have heard it since
the beginning of time.
And advantages taken and innocents
pay to assuage the egos that cry
for their mamas.  What to do. . . what to do?

The fathers will not leave their warm beds
to hug their sons and lay waste
to their fears.  And tell them that the love
they left will always be there for them,
for the fathers do not know.
They still cry for the warm arms
they know and the pain does not let up.

One day every inlet of the sea
and in every cove of the dunes
beside the sea we will see that life
is fair and sweet and good.
And in every imaginable
hiding place life will prosper

as it was meant to from the beginning.

 

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