Archive | Poetry

Love Is The Answer. . .

Love, But Not Without Work. . . .

It was with derision that laughter came because I said love was the answer.  Naïve I was called and impractical.  I was told I did not know how the real world works.

But not without work I added.  Love needed work.  Wherever we were,  the boots had to be put on or the thinking cap.  That is where we begin.

By magic meals appeared on time, clean towels flew to shelves and clothes to closets hung all by hocus pocus.  The real work was the hand on the sick brow, emotions calmed, anger abated  and crises averted with lives prolonged by hearts transplanted.  Fears were laid to rest.

So now I work and find some words to describe my feeling.  Yet I even wonder now if these words are mine, except I do know that they are of me, my fabric and what it is I have lived through.

A romantic?  I am and just maybe I put into words what others think and cannot articulate.  Claiming my romance. . . I learned it somewhere.  I knew it at a time. . . but what time and where, this life does not tell me.  When we claim knowledge of a something and this life has not taught the principle, then we must claim it from somewhere.  Else how do we know?

To know means the lesson was taught at some juncture, long ago or perhaps with such vitality  we could not forget.  It has become part of our fabric and knowledge and therefore we claim it.  It is not to be uprooted by an ill wind blowing from wherever, because the knowledge is innate.

I write what I know.  At the moment I may not be cognizant of the fullness of the words, but they are brought up from that place where memories lay hidden and the greater self speaks.  And if the fences have been dismantled and the stones knocked down, it is with grace that the knowledge once again surfaces.

Love Is. . .

oh trembling soul,
that has seen beyond
to know the wonder of love.
Whose magnificent hand has shaped
the universe and all within with love?

What visions have the eyes seen unfolded
to cause the soul and mind a oneness,
heretofore, unknown?
Who loosed the shackles of
the mind encaged and sent man’s
Spirit soaring?

Love that has impregnated and nurtured
and caused man to grow upward

Is. . . .


artwork by Claudia Hallissey


Upon Entry. . . a warm fire. . .

So much weather and all else happening that it is time for a light repast.  It is time for a warm fire and a hot something with a bit of spice.  It would be looked upon favorably.  It is time for the head to rest and the body to recline.  But only for a time.  And then again we pick up the cudgel to make a new path.  For that is our destiny.  And we revel in it.  With a large ahhhhMennn!






Upon Entry

Upon entry, we shed
the mufflers and the gloves,
the vests and boots,
ready as any warrior to fight the cold.

The hot tea is
a choice companion for us,
as we sit and warm ourselves
before the fire.

A promised relief
we find in each other,
as we no longer find the joy
in battling winter’s discontent.

We know our blood thins
and our patience ebbs
since we do not run and jump
with glee as snow inches up.

We remember though
this once held joy in things
not common to advancing age.
A straight shot of something

would not be unwelcome in the cup of hot tea.


Kindergarten. . .

To Play the Child. . .

For whatever is not made peace with, will piece the person.  It will break them into a million parts, never knowing it can be peaced, nor seeing how they contribute to it all, will leave the adult body still playing the child.

When one operates from a child’s reference point, one does not see one’s contribution to a problem.  And there is nothing within a closed memory that would make us accept responsibility if we are not equal.  It is a mess but how truly remarkable for the protection of the individual .

But how god-awful for those around.



Kindergarten. . . .

It is kindergarten
this place of play that tells us
that we are just boys
and girls and everyone
wants us to be happy.

And we vow again
like the tinker bell that
we play the girl at heart
and like the peter pan
we will not grow up.

And we are adored
to be just as we are.
Never growing up to do
those things of pain we see.
Never growing up
because to grow up means
to grow old and hurts not only bodies
but feelings we drown in.
There is no one to save us so
to grow old means we die.

We all know that song, don’t we?
There is no fun like ours
when we stay young to play
with the wind in our hair and
someone pushing the swings higher and higher.

Nothing is expected then, is there?
Everyday is a day to play.
And if we are lucky we will die
in our sleep and never have to think.

Where is the fault in that?


The Bread Knows. . . .

Some days. . .

are a wipe out.  Only to do what one can.  The Rabbi Teacher asked only one thing.  ‘Feed the children.’  Sometimes the simplest command is shrouded by a complex system of thought.  Think so?

The Bread Knows the Feel of my Hands. . .

I know the dust of the flower
as the bees skin the petals
and suck the juices off their spines. . .

I know the touch of your hand
on the shoulder of my tunic
as I bend to kiss
the child of our union. . .

And know, however much I know,
the feel of the heart
beating against mine and know
to whom it belongs. . .

I knead with no passion
but stir lovingly into
a loaf of wonder. . .
crisp to the knife blade
it will be as it slices. . .

It is with love
I fold the dough onto itself
and it melds selflessly
into a loaf. . .

knowing all the while
the touch of my hand
with love caters
to our natural heritage. . .

both of us part of All That Is, life itself.


The Snow May Blind Us. . .

This poem is one in the Psalms of Love.  The book is available now in Kindle  and is in process also,  almost ready for print in paper back on  In the midst of this winter,  I wanted to share my love for this season and will always love it especially.  The most impressive part of my life has been winter,  possibly because it allowed time for things of Spirit.  Without the pressing of the must do’s of good weather,  winter has always allowed time to stand still.  It has allowed breathing space for feelings to take form.  Wood fires,  good books and loving arms.  They are worth remembering forever.




The Snow May Blind Us. . .

My feet are walking
into dusk and soon I will feel night
pulling at my ankles.
I will feel it creep about my knees
and like fingers clutching
the turned down blanket
and drawing it close to lay its warmth
on shivering shoulders.
I will pull up the night
to cover solid state illusions
and in the dream of the dreamer,
humble them.

Enough for the morrow
to make believe to believe,
to pretend to pretend
that the water will not
hold my walking frame
and my belief will not
move the mountain.

We will continue to share
a world of make believe
and in that world, the play onstage
will be the real thing
and the house we build
will shield us from the elements.
Snow my blind us,
may pile itself at our door
and the door may never open again.

But within,
the love we know
has tentacles that chase
illusive worlds into being
and as we created
this house of passion,
we will again gain space

for a love such as ours.


The Gates of Heaven. . . .


When I Crashed The Gates. . .

You ask. . . .
 How do you go to your knees
and with tears bend
and lift your head and
to whom or to what?

I say. . . .
To a loving, wholly, holy
Spirit that supports me
with an embrace I know. . . .

You say. . . .
A verb cannot do that. . .
rolling thunder cannot,
only. . . .

I say. . .
Only a heart
that knows mine and
what I say in answer
to what I hear and know. . .

and continue. . .
only in obeisance
to what we both want
for beloveds, for Beings
throughout all life. . . .

You say. . .
 how do you get to that place?

I say. . . .
I worked to remember
from where I came
and what I knew. . . .
It has taken my life
and the cost has been dear. . . .

You ask. . . .
Was it worth it?

I say
I am here to write this.
They rescued me when I crashed the gates.











Ripped, Severed, Broken. . . .

Times Such As These. . .

I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about

Fearful that pieces of my heart
may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leave us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to convey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?

Or the parents whose hearts
were transplanted
when word came that
these unspent stars were already
breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage
have not learned.
To resort to arms

means death in any country.


Lean on Me. . . .

Lean On Me. . .

Lean, love, lean on me
and rest your tired heart.
Let me rescue you out of a dream
and allow you to awaken in a world of choice.

Bend to me, as the willow to the wand,
as the lily grips the water to float.
I have time enough and arms
strong enough to grant you rest.


Lean on me, love, lean on me.
Press your tired mind onto mine
while we give to each other
what we sorely need.

It is only a breath of a moment
that separates us
and but a breath
that holds us apart.

Come, lean for now.


(this Valentine’s Day with much love, Veronica (( from
the upcoming Psalms of Love,  ))


The Past Is Still Happening. . .

Journal entry of November 3, 1983—(keep in mind I work with all time is simultaneous, a quantum premise, though I did not know it at the time when 35 years ago I was into black holes and white holes where this entry picks up) . . I scribed. . .It is no small thing when we start commenting on the universes within universes, penetrating and interpenetrating, we then go into which had its beginning, yet when?

It is still happening you were told.  The past is still happening and the future has already happened.  Take your pencil and make circles extending even further and further out.  You will find that the circles become interlocked and in them you are, picking up material for a book, for living, for a problem which yet is not solved.  We like to see material stretched and the mind boggled.

(I did what you see here and then the teachers comment).  The interlocking circles show the universes.  That is as good as it goes.  From your I Am you then project into an I Will Be and then the will be will show your then I Am.  Following this procedure you see where the reverse will also be true.  Your I Am falls into the I Was interlocking and in the I Was is the center of the I Am and it is still happening.  The past is never finished, never done.  It is in progress.

When you looked upon the Amish material simulating the book cover, it peeled your hide back again.  You found a tugging to where your present I am is still a part of that present.  This is what does the arc angle in people’s heads.  They don’t know why they are drawn, but that part of them that still yields to that present,  the past present is where the turn of events draws them.

Your Circa 1840 speaks to a time of a woman and family.  She lives yet and draws on you.  And you on her.  Your feelings surmount the time element and give to her the needed support.  Her lack of knowing circumscribes her knowing.  Both of you are in the process of requesting a greater something and you think you knew it from a somewhen.  What somewhen?  The somewhen is in your memory bank and you knew of it and wore it with splendor.  Where did you come from?

Circa 1840:  Revisited

She could say in reverent tone,
I love you.
I polished the hearth and
set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The children came, one by one.
She loved them, each and everyone.
They were good.  She said I love you.
I’ve borne you sons
and taught them how to pray.
I’ve polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The sons grew up and one by one
they went away.  He never knew why.
He never knew that they too, said,
I’ve fed the chicks and bedded the calves
and got a perfect score in sums.
While their hearts fairly burst,
do we please thee?

He accepted the polished hearth,
the risen bread, the handsome sons
who tried so hard to please
as that which was his due.

One day the hearth no longer shone,
no longer was the bread set to rise,
no handsome sons to plead
with eyes that tore her heart apart.

‘You do not love me!’ he angrily shouted.
Wearily she turned away.
Did you not see the polished hearth,
the bread set to rise,
the sons who tried so hard to please

and love that died?


(click on illustration for details)



So Much To Be Said. . . .






So Much To Be Said. . .

You say,

So much to be said.  To take a hammer
to a word and splinter it. . .what’s to be gained?

I say,

Where is the meaning if you don’t?

You say,

Let everyone take what is theirs and build on it.
That is the way of the world and the way illusions
are granted a solid state.

And darling woman,  it is all right.

 I say,

They say that life is too hard just to be illusions.
The people will say of me she was off the wall!

You say,

There will be those who say you have a fine
imagination.  And others will say you took an impossible life
and created a philosophy to sustain it.  Does not everyone?

 I say,

Not every child is shown tender mercies.  And
without them there is a long sleep when transiting.  Remedial
help is needed.

 You say,

You shored up when fault was found within your system.
You continue to love and lady,  continue I ask.

 And I ask,

            Where will you be?

 You say,

Until the day you can no longer do it, walk to the fields
and lie down and say no more. . . .  I will pick you up and we will
again set fire to hearts which do not flicker yet and create that
world where love abounds and commitments and priorities take
their proper place.

Time is limited and it grows dark.  We work, we work,
with love, lady, with love we work.


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