Archive | Poetry

I Wish It For You. . .

There comes that time when night falls unto itself and one says I call it a day.  It is time for the night air to wrap us in its ambience and for us to taste of its elixir.  It is when memories are called upon that feed the soul when lives were their richest in love and deeds and hearts fit the space designed for it.  This is private time for the divine within and the who I am.  Specifics are not necessary but the feel and fit are.  I wish it for you.

 

 

Inhale Deeply. . .

Inhale deeply the night so that
you will remember
the freshness that comes
with the beckoning dark. . .

And the stars
leading you to a place
of warm retreat. . .

Melancholy soul,
even the heavens
pale beneath your fatigue.

Breathe deeply
and consider my love.
It comes from a world
we hold in our hearts.
Go.

Begone, into the night where the heart rests.

2

The Mortgaged Soul. . .

Taking Time. . .

You say that it takes all your time to do what it is you do.  And you are the only person who can speak from that point of knowledge knowing what is required.  But we were all born doing reference work in the Talmud which teaches that the purpose of life is to learn.  And we must.  And we do, though not all at the same rate. 

In this life much is expected of us we think.  And with so many distractions, it takes longer and longer to maintain a just quality of life.  We know we cannot unbid what we have committed ourselves to.  Therefore it behooves all to choose with some knowledge what becomes our priorities. 

The privacy of minutes becomes non negotiable, except where life is in danger.  In this world where cultures are changing, it is imperative that talks ensure the fair exchange of work and accountability.  Otherwise we run the risk of bankrupt lives and mortgaged souls.  And we are an aging populace whose futures already are written on the walls.

Mortgaged. . .

Our hands brush the sleeves
of our long coats harnessing
our bodies’ warmth. . .

And meet and twine fingers
giving strength long lost
to the business of living.

The busyness of lives
succumbing to the details
of days usurping minutes
not claimed , hungry
for times floating loose.

Wise is the one hugging
closely as breath to breathe
what surrounds
the body as private.

Mine! the toddler shouts,
as he grasps what is his
loudly with force
to claim ownership.

Mine, man whispers as he
clings to the privacy of minutes
not already claimed by
the interminable needs
of the innocent.

The mortgaged soul has
to replenish his own needs
before offering more

from the well running dry.

 

primitive art by Veronica

1

The Road To Damascus. . . .

Just One Time. . . .

All it takes is one cosmic experience and your life is changed forever.  Just one and either you will run down the street in your altogether and the men in white coats will take you away or it will alter your life  so that even you won’t recognize the words as coming from you.  Let alone the rest of your circle.  Because you will walk with one foot unalterably planted in another world and your perception of this life will take on proportions never thought possible.  And you will speak  hesitantly but you will work with an attitude that tells everyone that you know how important it is to do what is right. Never will there be half way measures again taken and never will it be done catch as catch can because ‘it don’t make no matter.’  Because you know it does and if this beloved classroom is to continue as it must,  you know now that what you do matters a lot.  We will from this day be held accountable.

The cosmic experience will differ with  each person.  And it will happen,  it will.  Sometimes it is just a glimpse that has you gasping and turning white, or a voice from a somewhere you recognize and have loved,  or a thought inserted that stops your heart momentarily.  Any number of  things not pertinent to the moment but meaningful.  And meant for you.  For you.  It will be a beginning and you will be on an inner journey that will take a lifetime.  You will be on your own road to Damascus. . . my heart goes with you. . . .

The Road To Damascus. . .

And Paul,
on the road to Damascus,
unaware of forces pulling
at his thought
was none the less surprised.

In the privacy of mind,
how could an invasion
of thought not his own
be in conference?

So it is,
in the wars of the visible
and invisible worlds,
the supremacy for power
does not stop.

Our worlds! Claim the gods. . .
My world!  Claims the pilgrim.
One in partnership
till man tasted the lust for power.

Lest we lose this,
the best of all classrooms,
brotherhood is still the dream
and our hearts still too unripe
to embrace its benevolence.

But its power
of magnetism still attracts
what prompted this dream
that catapulted us

to give search to the meaning to the why of us.

 

 

art by
Claudia Hallissey

2

The Light In Our Hearts. . .

We carry the Light in our hearts
and it reflects in your eyes.

You carry the heat of its flame
and we both are warmed.

Silvery, silvery night,
piercing as the child’s cry
cuts sharply into complacency,
peace-ing the soul;
unerringly slipped
into a world of nights
to make a difference.

The Light and Flame linger.

Do you see what we see?

 

(The candle was another effort in the late ‘70s when I started the Christmas cards when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  They were still done with materials at hand and what I was limited with time and funds.  What was in abundance was emotion.  It was a time of upset but life does in its minute ways to compensate.  As I made these in the late hours of the night much was igniting my inner life.  In ways I can hardly believe, I was a mystic still in those days of hectic secular life with its complex issues to deal with.  In retrospect,  I lived it all and did everything I saw to do but in innocence did not know what I was truly doing.   Uppermost was the intent to create memories that would sustain in spite of circumstances.  This was a need as I saw it.)

 

 

 

0

What The World Needs. . . .

The Tender Embrace. . .

 

We all speak from memory.  Whether it is ours or not, it makes little difference.  For within us it is so that the one time speaks for all time.  And everything else is a variation on a theme.  I could not know how deep the emotion which evoked the tears.  Enough said that at one time in a history it happened and given a glimpse this photo brought forth another ocean.

The words were a Given.  From this point in time, the meaning is such that it brings hope.  For what I don’t really know but that they make a difference is one.  It is a Christmas gift to all with what the heart of Jon Katz caught with his camera.  Eloquent.

We Need Not Speak. . .

We need not speak.
Centuries ago we passed
from realms noted for words.

We now simply look
toward the Other and know
by obvious signs what the Other seeks.

It is a far cry
from the world of words where
the simple I  love you spoke
what reams of paper
could not properly say.

It was a love letter that united
planets of thought
that we searched.
I will miss these words

spoken from lips pressed
to my ear only to have
the world know
by the tender embrace                                                                                                                        

that the words were meant only for my heart.

 

2

And Gather Moonbeams. . .

We Dance. . .

We dance then
through the night sky
and gather moonbeams
for our baskets. . .

We strew them
onto the paths of the children
who will pick them up
and throw them
with joy to the night sky.

They will be stars again
to be gathered by a one
who recognizes stars
as beams of light. . .

The light is a reflection of you.
The love spewing forth as largess
from the largest cup
is what you have to give.

And the supply is neverending. . .

 

1

Tangible Slices of Memory. . . .

This was from the box of forget-me-nots that I couldn’t part with.
This was the first Christmas card I made.  With whatever I have gained in computer literacy,  I have been able to restore a reasonable semblance of the faded copy I was able to unearth.  There was no discretionary income to spend on materials, so I used what I had on hand and could garner out of the slim household budget.

I wrote what was in my heart and what I wanted to share with those I cared about.  It amazes me still that there are responses so poignant when something touches people.  And I keep those in my heart pocket.

It taught me that when given from the heart, response also is heart given.  It cannot be otherwise or consequences to intentionally deceive under skilled rhetoric  has its own judge and jury to be confronted.  Our actions might as well be in stone.  They are not forgotten.  Perhaps the lesson should be revived?

Looking at the card now after so long a time,  I notice the Star Of David I hung on it.  Even way back then I embraced all belief because I was certain with apriori child memory that everything was God.  I stumble about what to capitalize because everything in life is Divine.  Perhaps I should Lock Caps on my keyboard.

(the following was the verse for the card)

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the wooly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past. . .

Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries
mince pies and cranberries. . .
crackling fires and laughter

And the sound of silence,
as love stretches through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.

As real, as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.

A promise, given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

 

0

To Sweep Clean My Father’s House. . .

I Am Not Finished. . .

When I was a girl I learned only because I hung onto my anger (as fuel for my work) that I could find the energy to continue with what was demanded and not give up. This is what keeping on with keeping on means to me.  Anger ( used also by siblings), was a way to get the work done because otherwise we would be open for more criticism.

Many people work this way and it wearies them into confusion.  Not identifying why there is hesitancy about finalizing work, they unconsciously think finishing will finish them also.  They think they will not then have anything in reserve to continue their lives and it will end for them as the project they work on.  It doesn’t of course because when we are finished, whatever the results,  we are given another bout of energy to force us into action. Another memory will arise reminding us of unfinished business and because we are conscientious, we are off and running.

I have been inclined to use my anger throughout life in this way, to build on meaning and not to dismantle life.  I have worked until exhausted but gratified to have finished the muscle work, or the creative work, or the mind work that puzzled and tired me no end.  Did I learn something?  Of course, of course.

Heaven uses us in diverse ways.  Heaven does not waste incipient lessons.  There are some bright lights (not all of course) on the other side that can see the consequences of our behaviors.  Very little goes to waste in the skein of things.  Things heaven cannot do something about are as heartbreaking for them as for us.  But as we see the summation being of use in positive ways, the heavens also are spurred into activity that is consequential.

It is an effort that is unifying at best.  When we are open to the thinking, to the thought, we can see that we are an experiment in a new world of communal living.  We are of diverse pigmentation, of different cultures, of frames of reference that involve evolution on scales unknown to isolated peoples whose rituals of living are similar.  Our country is envied by worlds as the example of universal lives in progress.  Others are stagnant in their thinking, breathing the stultifying air of diminished lives but laughing at us struggling with self imposed obstacles, to be sure.

In the obstacles, the minor as well as major ones, are the lesson plans for growth and progress.  We make them ourselves for in the larger picture, the broader reference, we race with the greater god and the divine in us toward universal concepts still to be born.   It is only one truth toward life everlasting.  Count me in on the race.  I am not finished.

(Excerpt from poem)

New World . . .

What is dealt on a scale
unfathomable
are heart’s yearnings
toward new understanding.

Of a universe or more,
equipped to handle
a multifaceted life
with undreamed answers
to questions giving life
to new dreams,
giving breath to new forms,

and heart to life everlasting.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

1

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

2

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.

 

3

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes