Archive | Poetry

The Ruler. . .

 

The Ruler . . .

Do not chop me up in little pieces.
I hate the sight of what I see
when I see me through your eyes.

I strive to be perfect
and in doing so find me
killing my very self.

By whose yardstick
am I measured that I
should fall so short?

An unguarded moment
can make or break a world.
Today I find mine broken.

Should I expect you to build me a new one?

 

Recent Journal entry April 2018. . . They have written and they ask why they fall so short when they try so hard.  And this failure levels them to the degree that all desire for advancement leaves them in the dirt and in the dirt they are stepped on.

Lost in a world of numbers and competition for place in family, in life, notably already feeling unnoticed, has put many walking out on talents enormously needed.

We come into the world unique and yet this uniqueness is not appreciated but considered undesirable differences.  Those who want to be a presence in new life as well as those who wish to find their own centers of substance, are in need and they are neither female nor male specifically but human beings essentially. 

And to be different is not appreciated.  When striving to do better to please also brings forth intelligence which has an inner glow.  And again forces more separation because one appears then better than they who originally found the difference threatening.

We wish a way to avoid curtailing a person’s growth crucial to their evolution, and growth possible to those whose own sense of failure results in stepping on the heads of others, especially children.  The mother gods and father gods desire to hold their positions forever it seems lest they go down with the proverbial glub. 

Who has the courage to see their progeny outstrip them in intelligence and maturity?  Yet the purpose of life is growth and promoting the potential of everyone.  To grow and become accountable was held a priority. 

The intent has always been that emotional growth would be commensurate with chronological aging.  That when behavior was appropriate to the age, the emotions would match.  Such has not been the case. 

Adults go their graves clutching the child within to their bosoms.  Childlike awe and wonder is never out of date; childishness only appropriate under 5 years.

It is time to grow up.  Lest the devices deemed to amuse today’s world become weapons of war.

2

Cost Commensurate. . .

 

 

What can be born and be borne?   Knowledge is that all reality is a preferential viewpoint.  That the dream is born and in it will be the
lesson plans inherent.  That with the lesson plans will be what we
need to learn and they will be borne within the dream’s boundaries
and the lessons will be carried.  We will be equal to their weight and
profit from them.  And we will grow and mature and do good and
the dream will be a success for this time and place.  We will do what
we can do. 

 

 

 

It Comes With Cost. . .

It comes with a cost.
Learning can rip the heart.
Let the words be carried
to the Ethers and
wrung dry of your tears.

You shout a language foreign
to the ears of him.  You live
nowhere but in your heart and
nowhere but in your mind.
It is time to go to that
small place and bless who you are.

Tears of anguish ask for
acknowledgement.  The words are
lost on the south wind which carry
them north and lost on the north wind
as it brings them south again.

Your heart is tapped deeply
revealing the Source of who man is.
It is time.  It is time.

It is time he knows this.

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

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We Can Always Say. . . not ready. . . .

On What We Build Our Lives. . .

The construction is still in process, but we are nesting!   I am not sure it is Maudie, but surely a younger.  No doubt word was given that if babies are on the agenda, ‘this place is one we know and trust.  And they talk to you with real words, all of them do.  They keep tabs on you and watch the watch as all of us wish.’

I was surprised to see the doves begin building their nest.  Certainly with the construction going on in the back of the house, there were splinters and broken by the wind leaves and branches.  The two birds carried the pieces, one splint at a time, up to the nest.  I watched for some time and wondered if they would soon figure an easier way to do it.  It seemed to take at least two days, but then sitting on the nest was mama.  We didn’t think there were eggs yet, but she sat and is still sitting.  I will note the calendar.

When sleep eludes, the backyard offers privacy to hold the Newfie along with Maudie again and of course the (invisible) Sages In Conference.  I am at home with all this and know how fortunate I am.  In February I journaled that as I was sitting resting my arms on bent knees, I felt what I thought a hand on my back.  It was a loving touch and I thought son John had come through the patio door.

I lifted my head and a bird flew over from my back.  I thought oh my, he walked up my back and I felt his weight. What trust!  The connection I feel with Nature assures me my presence is welcome and my words to life are understood.  When we lose that connection to Nature, we soon lose it with persons and it becomes non existent with the cosmic world.

We count on devices to tell us we are liked and ignore the human next to us.  Who will catch us as we draw our last breath and watch the world calmly folding itself unto itself as the illusion it is?  On what have we built our lives?  What has been our focus?. . . .

As I Watched. . .

Part of a whole, yet wholly here.
Slowly as I watched
the silence was encompassing.

Piece by blessed piece, each tree,
each entity slowly folded upon itself
and laid itself down.

The screen protecting vanished
as it bent itself into nothing,
a wisp of an idea no longer useful.

Trees, one by one bent over themselves
and laid themselves down and
disappeared onto the forest floor.

And I thought now neat!
No evidence, no residue of debris
to litter the surroundings.

I murmured his name as I watched
the scene disappear and he said, don’t move.
And time collapsed for me again

into the frame of reference I know as mine.
And again the journey continued and
I sit and wonder and marvel at

this multifaceted existence I know as life.

(poem written March, 2017)

photo today April 8, 2018
by John Stanley Hallissey)

 

5

Dreamed Into Being. . .

 

Physical and mental boundaries are not finite.  We often speak of primitive religions disparagingly.  It does not take a genius mentality to see that in this tech world we have lost the spiritual connection to the cosmic populace.

We speak of life everlasting yet are afraid to die.  We speak of resurrection and buy cemetery plots to make it easy to put us back together?  Come again?

We are creators of the worlds we inhabit as I write so many times.  Individually and en masse we create the climate for what happens.  The book by Robert Nozick called The Examined Life (written while on sabbatical from Harvard) announces that perhaps we are in the creation business as apprentices.  Perhaps we will be in charge of something else anon?

Mental boundaries no longer exist.  There is a spirit afoot (always was) to those whose ears and hearts are open to hear  and will have courage to speak of this.  There are those whose brains are open albeit a tiny percentage more than the average and are given ideas that will find grounding in this world.  And to those whose eyes are open will see and be able to interpret the writing on the wall.

The science gods tell us that we use just 5 percent of our brains.  Why has evolution stagnated?  Why are we so narrowly focused and why has our Earth become such a playground for the privileged?

These ideas are not new.  I try to make them understandable.  All life is simultaneous.  Quantum Physics teaches this.  When man appeared on Earth, Eden was everywhere.  Maverick thinking? I think not.  My scope had to broaden to contain my commitments.  Whether my lifetime bears me out, I leave to the heavens.  They still hold the sparklers.

Dreamed Into Being. . .

I love this Earth Planet she said,
it is a place of verdant lands
and high thoughts. . .

It is a place where images send
these thoughts aloft and tie me
to that place of love.

We walked it many times of course,
she said, but now the choice
is mine again. . .

How to stay and finish a work
the Master said was needed even
by one such as me?

I hold the only authority that counts.
No letters can give me that
which is already mine.

I claimed that on the day I said, I AM
and chose to BE. . . .were her words.
Simple as that and as hard. . .

I finish my work and then go home,
to the ‘old country’  that holds for me
she said, all that I cherish.

It is a dream I dreamed
and called into Being. . .
that is how

new worlds are born. . . . .

June, 2015

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Prayer In Concert. . .

In Conference. . .

I was a young girl when the priest came to our home and my mother saying. ‘I don’t know who teaches her because I don’t.  I don’t know where she gets her ideas.’  Years of criticism for my different ideas but my work habits were praised.  I was diligent, thorough and needing praise for a starving heart.

On my road to Damascus experiences when my world crashed in my mid thirties, I could not believe good intentions and love were so easily crushed.  With the help of a good doctor and my belief that I was still choice goods, rebuilding began.  Not easy to do when one’s only bastion of strength was in thought and thinking.  And one’s reason for being were three young sons who needed their mother at home.

Some call it prayer, others call it meditation.  I called it duelogues because oh my I argued.  I seldom carried it out loud because of setting off unrest in others I learned, hence the duelogues.  I crashed the gates of heaven because how could what was taught in church school and on Sundays be so wrong when I worked so hard to do everything right by the church, by the book, by heart and even invented.

If it could not work where I was, then it was a lie and I wanted no part of it.  Heaven  convinced me that it could work and did and then we began our work.  And work it has been.  24/7.

Then over the years dialogues and then In Conference.  The poetry was continuing along with the journals when I found myself scribing.  I typed hard copy because of my need to see in print what I heard was psychologically sound and philosophically palatable.  It had to make sense.  And my life had to show it.  It has and I continue to work it.

To make my work understandable, the small voice within, god within, comforter, or the smooth pipe that Emerson called it that the angels or the muses speak through, works at one with me.  I hope this post makes my work easier to understand.  I am unable to explain the thought processes.  But it has been a lifetime of mutual trust.  (I enclose an excerpt from July 1, 2015 journal and also a poem for that day.  Sometimes they coincide and this day is one. It will make the poem easier to understand.  Some editing was done as I pick up the words)

From the Teachers . . .much will jar the houseboats of peoples and they will look again at the justice and injustices of partnerships whether in the same house or not.  We know the intricacy of such matters.  We know your penchant to keep words to a minimum.  The aim is to get as many as possible to the table and to think.  Eat and think.  One and the same.  What is being fed will make its way to the minds of men and there will be growth and there will be a road that has been scythed for travel.  We will have a striving for peace.  People will realize that the difference they make within themselves will be the greatest difference they can possibly make.

Prayer In Concert. . . from the other side. . .

It was prayer you held in concert
with the Great One who marked
your presence on his counter of beads.

Talks, mostly dialogues, it seems,
and held court with sages long asleep
on couches too soft for too long. . .

Rise!  You shouted and they, appalled
at the sight of woman,
rose and were rightly chastised.

They had forgotten the bread lines
and the penniless people and
children’s bellies bloated from hunger.

You brought them to shame and now
they remember how the ivory towers
separated their lives from the
grime in the streets below.

Now you tell them in languages understood
how deep the hunger for knowledge
can be as if for bread; to keep alive
a mind from sleep;  (like scourge
it contaminates all minds of men).

We wake them up and put to work
the fathers of the children forever seeded

with memory from a place the angels tread.                                    

 

 

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The Invited Guest. . . .

We have those things that comfort and reassures us.  It can be a photograph or a painting or something bringing to mind a feeling.  It takes us to the place where we were all of a piece and peace.  I have many such things and one of them is wood. 

My woodworking days were of such quality that when I finished a project,  having carved or sawed and sanded and then waxed and polished, I would with great love bend my face to it.  Feel and smell the earth I love in it and know I will cherish this scent forever. 

What world taught this now female person to be a carpenter with so much love that when I picked up wood and saw and file I knew what to do?  Where to begin and how to proceed?  I loved those years of woodworking.  Humbling an idea and creating a something. 

I do not remember the lifetime but there was a teacher who gave me tools.    Those tools were courage to try and confidence to do, so the means manifested.  I learned ‘do and you will be shown how.’  The intensity of purpose was the prime ingredient.   The invited guest became my Mentor. 

The Invited Guest. . .

I once knew a good carpenter
who, with hammer and saw
and wood and file,
showed me how to build a chair.

I did and sat on it and
then decided I needed a table.
With hammer and saw and
wood and file,
I built a table and sat at it.

I knew I needed another chair
for an Other to sit on.
So with hammer and saw
and wood and file,  I built it.

I then invited the carpenter
to join me at the table.
We lit a candle and talked
and a new world was born.
How did I know

I first needed to learn how to build?

 

photo by John Holmes

4

It Is Life Everlasting. . .

 

 

In Memory of a last day. . .

In his last days before leaving Earth  David asked, knowing what you know, how could you go on living?   And I said there were three good reasons.  Tresy, David and John,  the jewels of my life.  Never to have known them?  That would have been my greatest tragedy.   Unthinkable!  There is nothing this life could give me to match the gift of them.  They have been my best teachers.  Thank you for choosing me as your mother.

 

 

When David Died

I say that David took the hands off my clocks.
It was the greatest gift he could give me.
I tire of running my life with a large hand and a small hand.
No time for this, hurry for that.  Do this now, do that before.
I hate it.  With a passion.

I want to immerse myself in time and swim in it.
Feel it around me yielding and yet holding me up.
I want to feel the eternity of it and I want to see my
house and yard at different times under the sun.
To be able to say that in the morning
this is precisely how they look.
I want the information stored in my Memory Bank
for those times when I feel bereft.

I want to see the moon rise and give way to the sun.
I want to see the rainbow around the moon
and say again, we are in for a big snow.
I need to revel in the mundane task
of shaking out the kitchen rugs
on the back porch and feel
the cold boards beneath my slippers and
the cold air stealing beneath my clothes.
I want to keep looking at the moon with a glance,
because no farmer stares at the moon too long
and say hello David.

And when I feel very homesick, I will again
as I have in the past, take my coffee
out on the porch and sit beneath the midnight sky
with the stars daring me to look up
and identify them and again

revel in this multifaceted existence called Life.

8

Drunk of the High Wine. . . .

It was a difficult lesson for me to  integrate.  It is for most people.  One of quantum  premises is that all time is simultaneous.  Those who follow my blog know I speak of this often.  It is difficult for me to write of experiences if I neglect to incorporate a fact that makes my work understandable.  Especially when it has taken fifty some years to be comfortable with the fact.

I had another dream Wednesday morning  the 21st of March about 4 a.m.  when I was aware of my French connection again.  I prodded myself to remember this.  It was a different household,  but still with members of family.  I had a granddaughter celebrating a birthday and I was invited out with them for cake and ice cream.  She did not look like my California granddaughter but mine, nevertheless.

What made me take note of this was that I had been preparing dinner as I often do but the food was unfamiliar.  I was not inept with handling it but the thought was that it was different.  The thought injected perhaps to alert me to this parallel life we all have  but wave off.

It reminded me of a post I wrote of when I awakened in the night and sat up speaking French.  I do not speak the language but I was in vivid conversation going a mile a minute.  I was pulled down and went back to sleep.  This happened in the summer of ’85 I had journaled.

I also wrote when I dreamed as a monk in the summer of ’83  that I walked up a hill with a group and I made note in the journal that it was the year of 1790 and time of the French Revolution.  I dragged a cross on my shoulders portraying Jesus’ crucifixion.  Windows were boarded up along the way and evergreens shining in the moonlight and everything was dusty.  Vivid.

Coming to mind especially was the meeting with the German VIP in Munich who scolded me because I had not told him the previous week in Paris that I would be in Munich the following week.  I informed him I was not in Paris and had never been.  He became very angry because our conversation was prolonged he said and friendly.

He was insulted and righteously because his was an important job because of his ability to remember people and where he met them.   (Tourism is vastly important to all countries.)   I could not convince him when my husband appeared steering me away.  I have never in this life as Veronica been to Paris.  Many places, but not ever Paris.

It all makes sense and convinces me that we are more than what we appear.  I firmly believe we will one day on bended knee say thank you to our fellow man.  We just don’t know how heavy his burdens.

We’ve Laid A Mark or
I’ve drunk the high wine. . . .

Upon this time we’ve laid a mark.
Because we were and are.  Sometimes
not much to be sure.

And will be forgotten in time,
but those we leave have upon them a mark,
cherished.

They say it is hard won because much
was demanded.  I say, earned, because
they produced by work.

Both right, altogether, a symbol,
to be wrought or cast in iron
to be remembered.

As important as the tablets
brought down from the mountain,
though this itself was chiseled with sweat.

Workers both, to be certain, honored
and to be brought toward the frontispiece
of a life lived

with reverence to a lifted chalice.

1

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

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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.

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