Archive | Poetry

When The House Sleeps. . .

 

Mornings have always been special.  The sounds blended on the street when Princess and I walked; the lights in the homes spoke of early risers,  the occasional car with lights on.  The dog down the street spoke his urgency to get matters started.  There still is a benevolence to the morning which I would awaken everyone to feel.  It is a palpable part of the day.    Times are different now and the body no longer equal without the exuberance which greeted the morning.   Still though it finds me alive and in dialogue with the divine within.  We put the blessing on the day.

 

When The House Sleeps. . .

As the hour
creeps toward dawn
and you put on the kitchen light
for a cup of tea,  it is good
to know that others
walk the morning.

We walk in unison
those of us whom sleep avoids,
when the dream finishes and
the heavens no longer
are a soft bed.

We hug our robes
to take  the chill off bones
shivering in the hours
the house sleeps even
if we cannot.

The tea warms
both the hands and the heart,
while the dawn approaches
with a promise.

It is enough for us to know
we are legion and
take comfort that across
our half of the world
that cannot sleep,

we keep our cosmic half awake. . . .

 

Photo by Jon Katz

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It Takes A Yesterday. . .

 

Scribed March 25, 1989. . .(Keep in mind the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous.  If it is difficult to accept I had to learn it to survive and  have consciously lived with it for well over a half century.)

One must of needs supply a history to give meaning to the day.  For when there is no history, there is also no Now, and certainly no future.  It is only with a history does the uniqueness begin to show and the ability to clarify that uniqueness and to be a positive influence must be because peace has already been made with that history.  (the teacher)

 

 

No Yesterday. . .

We don’t even have
a yesterday
when we forget the past.

And no use looking
for a tomorrow
because today
does not happen.
It takes a yesterday
to make a now today.

We can costume
our yesterday
and dress it up
to be fashionable.
And then possibly
we can walk together. . .

But I think
the proper thing to do,
if not courageous,
would be to stare
down yesterday
and suck the fear out of it.

Then perhaps we’ll have a today
as bed for tomorrow.
That assures a future only

if you are okay with that?

 

 

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A Place Of Rest. . . .

There can be less stress and stronger heartbeats if the persons involved could call upon what it is they know to help relieve situations,  and if not situations,  then relieve themselves .

In every place,  in every nook and cranny that houses a soul,  there is a place to go.  If not physically,  then within.  To be able to turn to it, whether there is a window or a corner holding an item of interest or rest, or within where there is a place that has a familiarity surrounding,  there is a respite.

For however brief the instant,  it is always a place of rest.  And in this place there may be tears of relief,  of sorrow, of joy and a minute of gathering one’s resources to continue on where one is,  but with a visible difference.

And the difference will be an attitude or direction, or a concrete, so it would seem, act.  It is important to have this place.  It is a holy place within, inviolate.   All people have it, but do not think of it this way.  In a crowded situation it may be a bed no one is sharing at the moment; a place to recoup one’s losses.

The window overlooking a noisy street, or a patch of snow or green,  with perhaps a tree,  or even a piece of crockery,  or a basket on a shelf,  just a thing of rest to pull one together time  and time again.  It is necessary regain footing,  to focus inwardly,  to call all component parts of self together,  for a homecoming.  It is as necessary as the next breath we breathe.

And going back we learn to draw on what sustains,  what satiates the deep thirst and not what crushed our spirit.    And doing so we are equal to another run, another try at what gives life and does not take life.  We fulfill the reason for being,  our wish to make a difference.

Soft Wisdom. . .

Heretofore wisdom
had come slashing
across the mind and
in its wake, devastation.

Ravaged emotions
left one naked,
awash in body tears,
stripped clean and vulnerable.

Like a caress, soft wisdom
finally arrives
compassionate as a lover

to find the moment quiet.

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Time For New Thoughts. . .

July 30, 2014 journal entry scribed . . . . (we do not want your readers to think that the hero’s journey can only be undertaken when one has free time.  We want them to see that it can be undertaken when one is in the midst of chaos and that it does give some kind of civility as well as calm to what is going on in the midst of life.  It was not as your friend did taking to the woods for the good of nature as well as inner life.  You had an inner life as well as public life and were the parent on premises to a trio of sons, good as they were.  The ten year illness and horror of what awaited with your son, the office every day for 10 years and the last 22 years of a mother in law’s life ((the arrival of my inlaw who lived to be 97,  the birth of a preemie grandson at 1 lb 13 oz. and the transition of our David happened in a 3 month period))  and still considered were home and property maintenance.

 Most of the males who had a cosmic experience through the centuries had groupies or what today would be called gophers (go-fors).  They were mostly of a religious bent or philosophers.  A woman occasionally was mentioned though anonymously.   If Jesus’ time were now, the disciples would be called groupies  .)

 When my world crashed long before all the above happened, the word mystic was only a cloudy, wispy,  ancient term.  But when different doctors used the word,  I took note.  It is a person who never completely left the world they came from.  One foot is always in another world or worlds as they step over boundaries not seen.  Today’s quantum theories are no mystery.  Mystics live them.   In mental dialogue the exchange given is day long thought.  It often  is called prayer. It requires mental agility to work the work that living requires and keep one’s balance.

Physically,  it is just plain hard work.  And it has cowed many an able body down. The mystic I am inclined to think is born thus.  It is the child who upsets the family and has parents blaming each other for the difference.  Not mine!  Oh yes, just like!!!!  More often than not,  a head is closed up and evolution stagnates and the world tips easily into another war.  What should be welcomed is shunned and hidden.  And a world waits and cries in the night.

 

Old Comforts. . .

Exhaustion is the state
with the barbed tongue.
I would smite to the death
with what I hurt
and am angered by.

I will use my anger
to force a new attitude of thought
on those who wallow
in their comforts.

Old beliefs are
a security blanket.
But already they become
bare from nervous fingers
pulling the fluff out
in straight lines.
The nap has been neatly picked.
It is time for new thoughts

to cover old butts.

(July 2014)

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Never More Than A Heartbeat Away. . . .

Never More Than A Heartbeat Away . . .

The wind had blown over the huge tomato plant and he was out of patience with his mother with her directions as to how to support it.  Her instructions were explicit and he shouted it’s only a plant!  And she almost in tears shouted back, it’s alive!  And ended up doing it herself.  And the reason was sufficient.  It’s alive.  With due respect and gentleness,  it’s alive.

And that is the difference, as small and as large,  as it is with perspective.  Where to draw the line in outlook because it takes time,  energy and may take your life eventually.  It is no easy task to discern what is important enough to warrant attention to make a difference.  As small as a plant or as large as a human life.  There are only so many hours in the day and everything seems to demand the immediate now.  Many told me  I took the fun out of life because everything to me was important.  And important in itself that it did not need exaggeration.  But each has to discern whether the action should be pulled through one’s heart.  I would caution with this that when the least has no importance, it is sooner than one thinks that all things assume little importance.

I asked a friend who was a nurse,  why do you go to church Kath,  and she said because I hope what Jesus said is true.  I say that life is a continuum,  that it is everlasting and all is god.  And for me it is not a hope but it is knowledge and I know that what meaning there is in life I bring to my corner of it.  The thundering, noble force that rumbles through all is put within the each and here as I create my wonky wall quilt of evergreens and am accountable in my declining years as my conscience demands and  body enables me,  I have also created the world I worked for all the days of my life with the talents given me.   And I will give a hand to pull you over if you have doubt.  Because if there were not worlds as my mentor said,  I would care enough to create one and I would pull you over.

Excerpt from
We Can Go Home. . .

When the cardinal sings
I will acknowledge his song
to show that a life can be lived with
a mind open,  to hear muses sing
their songs of joy or pray their
mourning songs. . .

. . . to show that a heart
can be stripped of itself
like layers of onion skin
and still keep a steady beat.

I’ve taken the long way home and
nearing the gate, please catch me I say
and pull me on through.
I will answer c’est moi, it is I,

to prove we can go home again and again.

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Where We Cook The Oatmeal. . .

In the many studies on love and goodness, what appears to be evident is that when one is aware of good and when one comes to the time to do good,  the choices are few to do other than good.  When you become better and better,  your options cease. 

Heaven goes one better.  When approaching sainthood,  the options are not there anymore.  And even if sainthood is not on our conscious agenda,  I clue you that it is somewhere in us.  These they refer as those who have made the light a beacon force in their lives.  And who in their secret thoughts would deny this,  that they would be less than a beacon of light?

When the mind is one with the god mind,  only for that which gives life  (and who would deny otherwise,  no matter the personal consequences?)  humanity’s progression is the only path to take.

Here Is Where We Live. . .

There was a time
when thoughts and desires
were simple and
fleshed out a life.
When rain on the windows
promised a day with a good book.

Commitments came with age
and options few.
A book became a luxury
with sleep non existent and
a nap became the respite.

Fewer options were the result
of choices,  and commitments
took precedent because
other lives were at stake.

Big lessons to teach and
necessary ones,  if the evolution
of humanity was to continue.
A trip to the moon and a jaunt to Mars
will be the children’s dream
but here on Earth is where
we cook the oatmeal

to feed the children’s dreams.

 

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

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In Tribute To A Beloved. . .

To Lift The Plough At Last. . .

 

She said to me that when she felt Spirit ebbing,  she would toss her suitcase in the car and take off for The Farm.  She not only loved those who nurtured her but the Farm itself which somehow fed the city girl.  There, nothing was demanded of one except to discard all pretense, assume the mantle of charity  and hold high the torch of love.  In essence,  it refreshed and renewed.

We give gratitude for having had in our midst our beloved Susan.  It is only time which separates who we are.  In that place of no time, will come the most meaningful celebration.

To Lift The Plough At Last. . .

How great and wonderful
is the borning,
the breaking of dawn
fast in the East.

How blessed is the soul
intent on magnifying its god,
borned in the heart
of many lifetimes’ consciousness.

Naysaying all arguments,
lamenting all laments,
laying aside all agreements,
intent still, but weary.

It is a wondrous effort
the Great God instills in Man,
to plough the furrows of his life,

to lift the plough at last.

 

photo by
Kathy Qualiana

 

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Where Can We Go?. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where Can We Go? . . .

As the sparrow falls it is noted
and the quality of life
is diminished by one.
Long ago the feathers were counted.
The color of the downy beast
was subtly painted into the rainbow.

A child is born
in the forgotten regions
of a world too busy to take note.
The borning is observed however,
by the cosmic populace.
Its growth watched and shepherded
and when the child cries,
the heavens lament.

There is no least in quality or number.
Each healing heart is calculated
to keep a world intact.
Each blink of an eyelid, reason enough
for the sun to keep itself alive.

The coming together and the going apart
is through a door opening and closing
onto a portion of life, indissoluble.

Now it is here, now gone from here,
now it is here.  Disappearing from
this place, it takes form in another.

The sparrow sings in another tree
and his song is heard by one
who left the here and followed.

Where can we go and not be found?

 

Photo by John Holmes

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Time In The Heart. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time In The Heart. . .

I was an oppressed people.
I wandered long
and became very tired of wandering.

I hugged the banks
of the green river and
shredded lives of high caliber.

Crying hard and loud
I voiced irritation
that rubbed edges raw.

And soon I walked
into the promised land.
Even before, even before I died.

It was green and fertile
and without enmity.
Without rancor I tended gardens.

And in the wide calm of doing
I knew of Being.
Ah it was so.  It was so.

Tending the cabbages
I found the young fruit sweet.
Tending the orchards, I found the hearts tender.

It was in the doing that I found beauty.
And I know it has never been done this way.
And I have done it before.

Each time fresh, each time new,
but the promise and the land even
more beautiful than I had remembered.
But even now, new eyes approach mine
and I whisper. . . search for it,
search for it.
It is real and when you find it,
you will know it never was a place

but a time in the heart.

 

art by
Claudia Hallissey

 

 

 

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The Lighthouse. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Welcome. . .

Come, we walk.
Take my hand.
Lean on me for a time
to gain a respite
for a work unending.

I stand by you,
ready to catch you
if you fall.
My arms are steady
and ready.

I will not stumble,
so do not be afraid.
It has been a hard journey
and you tire.

I’ve stood the watch
and marveled
at your tenacity,
your perseverance.
Though you faltered,
you stood upright
without hesitation.

Now breathe easy
for a job well done.
No one could have done it better.
Welcome to the winner’s circle.

It was worth the run, don’t you think?

 

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

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