Archive | Poetry

August. . .

August. . .

It is August and there is
a sliver of breath inside the sill.

The deep breath of autumn is, I think,
a matter of time; perhaps only in the memory
of the child anxious for the world
of new books to open.

Anxious for the toys of summer
to be put aside to make space
for new thoughts.

An old lady now I am
but still waiting with anticipation
for the long, dark nights
to be filled with time.

It is necessary.  It will take an entire season
to adjust mind, body and soul
to a new way of thinking about who I was. . . .

and now who I am.

 

artwork by
claudia hallissey

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Papa, I Plead Now. . . or the dream will go begging. . . .

It is long past the time for all people to stand and demand of themselves to be infused with a steel core to uphold their wobbly selves.

We have stood by and watched the principles upon which we have built our lives and our children’s heritage broken and by pieces swept away.  It is long past the time now for all to take stock and question ourselves and ask upon what is it we stand.

All of us can go far back and some new ones, not so far, to see that we all come from distant shores.  We became Americans no matter our beginnings.  So many nations, so many cultures have formed what we consider to be these United States.  How long can we be satisfied to be less than we once were, faults and all?

Lest we expect less from ourselves, we must all work in what ways we can to restore our respect for our heritage which includes all peoples.  There is no partisanship when it comes to bestowing honor and trust and courtesies upon those who differ from us.

Less is demeaning what we are; lowering ourselves to what has taken centuries to build to make our country a leader among  people whose ambitions were to emulate what the United States symbolized.

It took dreams that took hard work and thought toward becoming a haven that the statue of liberty was gifted.  The world watched us and marveled.  And we became the heaven possible upon which people built their lives in this country.

We work now to restore those dreams not only for those seeking to flee despotism but for ourselves now to guard what we have known to be our country.  Or our dream will go begging.

The Strange Bequest. . .

There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked with a white cloud,
and whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.

He sat one day staring into space and
when I questioned him, he said,
‘I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long and have lived to regret it.

I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me a mind that does not rest.
I have the thought that his father and father before him

wrestled the same misty vision
which now is mine to set in motion.
I question this strange bequest for I have not
the staunch heart required to lay to rest

my ancestor’s  anguish.  Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore, inject me with a vial
of celestial courage  and fuse my spine with
with tempered steel. . . .

There is so little time. . . .                                                        

 

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Found Courage. . . .

There came a  time when man decided to forget his Source and do life on his own.  Since then it has been a game of catch up.  Our progress has been nothing to shout about but there would be those who would argue with me about that.

But for me it has been a matter of chasing down the first ‘why’ ever uttered by the child in search of a palatable reason for someone insisting he do something.  I don’t think it ever is a matter of courage though in retrospect it certainly is.  No one knows who will pursue that first ‘why’ and where the  journey leads.  And I tell you this, sometimes it is not pretty.

Those who observe know that it is a something, but they don’t know what.  They realize awesomely,  that it takes courage, a kind not familiar.  I say it mostly becomes a stubbornness to not falter and be a stumbling block.

Courage is not garnered overnight nor is it stored for all time.  It is fought for every morning in bathrooms and bushes around the world.  It is worn, with conviction man hopes, into  breakfast.  I know this and everyone who nurtures and is responsible for others know this.  We hope to present ourselves to the new day and convince our loves it is a day worth the living.

The following poem was written in 2013 and is a favorite of mine realizing that courage takes practice.

Found Courage. . .

I ask,

where did you find your courage?

On what tree was it hanging
that you could reach up
and pluck it from its hiding place
to wear as epaulettes
on your shoulders?

The children whisper during the night,
saying their Ave’s to each other,
hoping they will grow into courage
with a red badge to wear.

You say,

they are blinded.

They cannot see their milky courage
like cream rising to the top;
one day to merge
through alerted senses
that call for unthinkable strength.

They have been practicing every day
since they were born.
They will learn that courage
comes with each breath taken
and like the freedom they take for granted
must be won every day.
One day they will find it wears

like a second coat of paint.

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Forever Is Happening Now. . .

The miracle of life is that though we all hold different perspectives on everything,  each of us, beast or human,  we seem to hold an anchoring desire which is survival.  And that desire somehow is enough to keep us afloat for however long. 

When we fail, we all fail and go down the tube together.  And pick ourselves up and begin again.

The differing perspective is matched every once in awhile by another in part or whole and when it happens is met with a startled ‘we know each other don’t we’?  thought. 

The heavens do not look kindly on such alliances because little work would get done when relief comes with much fun.   Which is why isolation is often the state of the differing souls and loneliness the condition. 

Once recognized as a chosen state,  life becomes a dedicated ceremony.  And the celebration often at the end becomes the enlightenment knowing the party just begins. 

 

Forever is Happening Now. . . 

Was it a thousand years ago
or just yesterday when you stood
at my front door as a guest for dinner?

My eyes caught your
brown wing tipped shoes that
I recognized from another time.

I followed the path to your face
and there was an electric moment of recognition.
I wanted to say I know you, don’t I?

Followed of course would be to say
good to see you again, yet knowing
we were new to each other.

It was another time in a place
of no name now but it was a time
locked in forever.  I knew then as I do now

that time is a happening for this place
with the Earth names we’ve memorized for ourselves.
But it is a happening still

as all things are all the time.  We do not escape
who we are.  A quantum leap into the present
is our stance for this moment

but forever it is all happening now.

 

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Gods Searching For an Enduring Peace. . . .

Life:  a many faceted phenomenon. . .

It is possible that what is called hardening of the arteries is given the dreaded name of Alzheimers or dementia is the brain’s evolution brought about by aging or psychological trauma.  Either of those would be reason enough for portions of the brain closing.  But what happens should portions open?

If there has been no thought or education in the possibility of other worlds and times, what happens when inserted in the processes are unfamiliar sounds and glimpses?  And behavior not commensurate with these incidences that now are perceived as abnormal?  Can confinement now be not only a possibility but a surety?

There is science saying that we use only five percent of our brains.  One or two percent more puts us in the category of the question ‘why are you different?’  Just 2 percent.

It has people whispering about you as an adult and your peers shunning you as a child.  Yet being born with more of one’s brain opened means you will be seeing life differently than anyone else.

We focus on a narrow band of self created reality.  How much other is there to see?  I am really not certain.  I have lived with my view of the world, so it is what I know.  My details are not what others see the doctor said.  What do you see?  Only you know.

Oftentimes psychological shock will spring open doors that bring sounds into one’s consciousness never before experienced.  Yet the science doctors have stormed us with the information that only what is measurable in the laboratories is what is normal.

When one is presented with these sounds they have us off and running to the medics to reassure us that we are not going mad and are not crazy.  Yet when I asked a beloved why she went to church she told me that she hoped that what Jesus said is true.  That life is everlasting and seeing we will see and hearing we will hear.

And yet, yet, when presented by experience (she was a nurse) almost daily with evidence of it, she questioned what she was observing.

Her experience with spontaneous remission and unexpected deaths were not enough to convince her innate knowledge that all was not tied up in the pills and protocol.

When the tsunami broke through the sea wall of my skull and the sounds of moral outrage reigned in my head I shouted to the heavens to close up my head whatever that was supposed to mean.  Those were my shouted words.  Close up my head because  I was wide open to universal consciousness.  Psychological trauma was reason enough for my diminished self esteem to crumble.

Worlds penetrate and overlap boundaries with levels below and above what we focus on.  Earth is the classroom for learning.  Linear measures make learning easier.  Evolution is a many faceted phenomenon and we must broaden our premise to be able to deal with it effectively.

Otherwise all will eventually be running down the street  in our altogether being chased by white coats.

(excerpt from Universal Watch)

Worlds looming as non entities,
not proven by the laboratories
of the Science Gods, is life in other forms;
as intelligent, viable, thoughtful,
as intent on living within the realm
of their possibilities as we on Earth. . .

Searching as we do as gods for an enduring Peace..

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

 

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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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