Archive | Poetry

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 beating 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 of each
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?

(from Kiss The Moon)

1

Legacy

The house is quiet
when I enter this private place,
this holy place,
to listen to my private oracle,
my comforter,
while I chase down my holy grail.

This holy grail for me
is my philosophy,
that I spent a lifetime pursuing.
I was pushed and pulled
into a blackened pit
strewn with many lifetimes’ worth
of desecrated dogmas.

I was expected not to question,
just accept as man had
dutifully done for centuries.
But life’s ironies consumed
an enormous part of me
as the maternal segment refused
to feed the children of my heart
an unpalatable meal.

Strong arms lifted me
and the nearing century
found me
in august terms in a legacy.

But I will leave some memos,
essays, words of many muses,
whose meanings are dressed
in costumes of countless lifetimes.
There will be ledgers
on how to build a life
with digestible ingredients.

Done as the mother of sons
whose hearts and minds she swallowed
so they would never, ever
think that she took
the keys of the kingdom

and left them bereft.

2

The Boarder Ashley

We hardly
knew you Babe.
You walked in and out
of our lives daily,
leaving a dust of footprints
on our hearts.

But we knew
you were ours
when first we met you.
A face like yours
was much at home
with laughing and crying.
We mostly loved loving you.

It seems we were born to do that.

(Ashley graduates from college and we will miss her.)

4

We Trod The Path

We trod the path, hunched
and pull our faces in.
We bend our heads.
The wind is strong
when you walk into it.

But I take your hand
and we struggle
against the icy rain
pelting our faces.

We’ve walked this route
in centuries past;
guarding ourselves
from saying too much.

We were different then,
simple. direct and not fashionable.
We were honest
in our appraisal.

We’ve become alien
to our prior selves.
And I can’t say
it improves us much.

What do you think?

2

Ballerina (from Kiss The Moon)

BallerinaDance for me little girl.
Dance your dance
and show the gods
why you dance.

In the garden I see you,
toes dug into the earth,
head lifted to catch
the glint of the sun
filtering through the leaves.

You nod in assent to breezes
whispering your name.
Your lips move in intonation
of the om which separates you,
momentarily.

You pirouette perfectly,
swayed by forces
caressing you to homage
of all who you are.

I long to kneel
before the image of you.
At one with your own music,
when your arms grace sweepingly
in the silent moment,
and you take all that is yours
and pray the garden

into a sanctuary.

Art by Claudia Hallissey

1

For Now

Let your mind answer
your heart’s murmuring,
for in the sanctity of self,
you will see your divinity.

In the august crucible
that is Earth,
latticed by clouds
hovering the trees,
you gain your peace.

In the musing
of the grass growing
to reach its height
and to color the bare earth
with a piled carpet,
you feel the hallowed crest.

In all,
gently tend the heart’s rending
and choose the teachers
who match the performance

of your innate goodness.

2

Sweet Focus

Toward A DestinyWill I be born
into another world and time?
Will they swim
into sweet focus
and I, with them?

Or will I
just walk into that world
and find the place
just meant for me
because I visit there every night?

Could it be like this,
so gentle, so swift
that the dance my feet are dancing
will find the new steps
the very ones I have been practicing?

Is the ambiance
of new breath and color
just made for me?
Another sweet thought to think
that it is mine because

I’ve taken my Earth Dance seriously?

(photo by John Hallissey)

4

Come To My Table

Come to my table
and sit awhile
and I will tell you tales
of years gone by,
attended by loves and those
who held magic in their hands.

We have supped
and laughed and cried some,
but mostly told the tales
that love spun out of gold.
It was a rich time;
not the coin of the day
but the values in the hearts
of those who dined.

It was magic
that threaded us together
through the years to find us
all at the same place, entwined.
But the love and the magic
may have been one and the same.

Do you think?

10

Our Sense Of Time

There is a sense of time
stretching from here
to other worlds whose names
are not in my vocabulary.
I am certain of here
because this is where I am.

I pushed away the snow
no longer pristine as first it came.
I took off my coat;
too heavy now with the approaching spring.
Too bad, I think, that the season of snow
is now so short.
Once it embraced the whole of me
that looked upon its arrival as enticing
as whipped cream on a piece of pie.

Its anticipation included holidays
that swallowed wicked witches,
soon  followed by grateful hearts
seated about the table
swollen with the summer’s harvest.

I put away the significant things,
sorting them for another year;
carefully storing memories
to be added to a life
already crowded with them.

I will remember this holy season
because of my fill of joy,
of heart shedding happiness.
In this world are the ways
we measure lives in holidays,
in holy days, in births and deaths,

only because of our sense of time.

2

Four Of Us Less One. . .

In Memory of David . . .

We sit and we break bread,
the  four of us less one.
We think of him but do not speak of him
who misses us as we miss him.

Our loss so great, the pain so blue,
we can but weep.
Yet so close we sit,
the thinnest veil between us,
the four of us less one.

We are who we are,
created by slow cooking
of heaven’s desire for perfection,
like garden vegetables simmering.

We’ve come through long years of drought
with parched throats and no cold storage
for the scrubby pickings of the mind’s  fruit.

Now it is morning,
fresh and free of pain, newborn.
We’ve slept the night on buckwheat pillows.
Now the promise
that our bowls will be filled
and we will eat.

Communion at the rail on bended knee,
waiting to be lifted up.

4

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