Archive | August, 2016

To Breathe Again. . .


Dog Days of The Lion

When at the end
of the dog days of the Lion
and the garden is again
conducive to prayer,
arrange the knees
bent in homage to the winter.

It is time to pray
the garden into being;
the stage for the winter solstice.
It is time to oil the tools
to store in barns
designed to hide
the hot and humid days
that made breathing difficult.

Spent flowers, weeping willows,
short term annuals,
having already died
their unceremonious death.
We pick up, clean up
the dried up dregs of the summer days,
and live to breathe again
the freshness of a cooling breeze.


photo by
John Holmes


One World At a Time. . .


One World At A Time. . .

The grounds are silent.
I am here in the catacombs
and yearning for words
to frame my time.
I enter the gleanings of my heart.

Hear O’Lord, my bayings
as the old wolf in the field,
trying to awaken the Mind;
as the old One mourned,
that has been asleep.

Hear what my heart
in the stillness of this hour,
yodels for a thing not defined.

My utterings go out
and circle worlds to find
their match in other throats
echoing mine.

We are so much alike and yet
so minutely different.

As I enter and as I exit,
guide me to what is mine and to no other.
This world where I am, can I accommodate.

One world at a time, dear friend, one world.  Amen and amen.


Considered Opinion. . . All Connected. . .

The Reserve


Considered Opinion, all Connected. . .

It is good to see the best in people but one cannot be accountable for everyone.  One cannot wish them onto a platform they are not
an example for.


Too many children grow up knowing the failures of their parents and think their own fabric is torn.


When living in Rome, doing as the Romans do is a task worth attending to.   In a society where civilization hinges on rules and regulations that are dismissed as nothing, means that civilization cannot survive.  It goes down the tube again.


Some of us are born disheveled.  Born of a genetic crap shoot, being not what the current thinking society expects.  And if all our parts are in the required  places,  we should consider ourselves fortunate.  The next time we may be not quite so fortunate and we will need to cope as best we can.  It is something to keep in mind.


Nature is rebuking us.  She is giving back as well as she has taken from us.  The message still stands that we cannot abuse this planet without being rebuked ourselves.  The numbers of dead in the weather disasters are horrendous.  When are we going to learn that we cannot keep propagating ourselves simply because it is something we know how to do?  When are we going to stop mortgaging the future of the children already here by spending lavishly the Earth’s resources as if the expiration date on these resources does not exist?  Our Earth can no longer support increasing numbers without coming apart.  Daily she screams her distress.   We need to solve our need to re-experience the lullaby feeling we remember.  Education is the key to understanding our wants and needs to discipline ourselves.  It leads to a matter of heart. . . not only ours but also our Earth, our home planet.


Photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.


August. . .

2012-09-23 18.53.28


It is August and there is
a sliver of breath
inside the sill.

The deep breath of Autumn is,
I think, a matter of time;
perhaps only in the memory
of the child anxious for
the world of new books to open.

Anxious for the toys of summer
to be put aside to make space
for new thoughts.

An old lady now
but still waiting with anticipation
for the long, dark nights
to be filled with time.

It is necessary.
It will take an entire season
to adjust mind, body and soul
to a new way of thinking
about who I was

and now who I am.

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.


Thoughts Brought To The Table. . . .


Eternal is the hour which grants the heart time.  Sacred is the vessel which yields the cup.


Life lived on a part time basis is for some more than enough to handle.


There is no talent which will be left unused and no path of interest unexplored.


There is sufficient time for all talents and then some in a world of no time and in a universe which is becoming.


There is no time, all time and yet no time to waste.


To manipulate time to serve the All is the true test of genius.


To be without memory is to strip today of meaning.


A today with no meaning already attempts an empty tomorrow.


To build memories for oneself and one’s nearest is part of one’s commitment to life.


It is not an empty effort to build good memories.  The memories will be called up in time not yet spoken and by generations unborn.


When the time of divorcement is close, we ring down the final curtain and review the act.


The heavens are also taught by example.  Keep that thought in mind.  You can be better.



My Sister, My Earth. . . .


My Sister, My Earth. . .

Like a compass, I stand,
breathing deep
and at the end of my arm
stands the ancient city
and at the top of my head
the north wind still blows.

Cooler by far
during the last month
of the year but still refreshing.

How to love this Earth
whose pines blister my skin
and give fertile gifts to my heart?
Astringent at times,
comforting at others, the jewels
my eyes would linger on.

It is with marvel I scan
the horizon, for how can man live
without one?
Trees hover, cattails linger,
long after their season, so much.

The water shimmers in the sun,
casting waves, glancing off shores.
Where else can Earth
find its mate?

It finds me, or I, it.
I bow on knees ready to lay lips
to her black dirt, ready also to lay
my body into her to gain her courage.

A sister, born and bred to serve
and to speak her seasons with eloquence;
to shed her gifts with magnificence
and all she asks,

is we be her stewards.

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.



The Pain of Thought. . .


The Pain of Thought. . .

They speak with their doctors,
their counselors and those with
backward collars
that they are anxious.

And cannot explain the panic
and the night sweats
that engulf them
even in their sleep.

They read they say
all manner of  books and articles
on positive thinking
and watch only those programs
that make them laugh
or sing their favorite songs.

They stay away from opinions
that destroy their sense
of equanimity and the
professionals wag their collective heads
and thoroughly agree.

Stay away! Don’t read the message
of those whose views would have
you stray from dogmas long
causing man’s anguish.

Don’t upset yourself, the counselors say,
just stay within the confines
of your parent gods.
They knew what was best for you.

But why then, you still ask,
when you know your life
should make a difference,

this kind of thinking makes your brain hurt?

In this day, thoughtful opinions are too much like work for most people.  Entertainment is what is preferred.  And  when school books are closed, seldom are they opened again.  Time is a commodity to be artfully balanced.  And unless we are ready to give up what has taken centuries for the human brain to be able to accommodate conflicting thoughts, we must use our time wisely or lose what abilities we have mastered.  When high school students find a paragraph difficult to retain, of course thinking will bring on brain pain.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey


Comforts . . .


Comforts. . .

There is a comfort
in being surrounded
by familiar things.
After a lifetime of use,
they are as old friends
needing only me as a companion.

My books follow my travels
begging not to be left behind.
Only those I have visited often
can lay claim to shrinking space.

My tablets,  journals,  yellow pads
and ringed ones need me to keep
forming words like a forever
love letter to mind companions.

There will come a time
when the need for even these
will cease and the red pen
will no longer underline
newly revealed insight.

For it will have all been said
and remembered.
The tablets will be filled,
except for a loose thought roaming
the Ether looking for a like mind
to grasp it and fill in the
fresh, forgotten ledger

lying unattended and waiting.  Unfinished.


Process of Change. . .


I had just put the dog out and as she limped  I  thought  it did not take away from her exuberance in the moment. We often think our present problem spoils everything.   It will if we allow it to.   We can learn to overlook or look over the problem, physical or otherwise to see that all else still shines.  Physical life is terminal but memory is forever.  We will take what is meant for growth and process it within.   Our genes will carry who and what we are ad infinitum. All events are not life or death moments.  Some events simply are.   Stepping outside ourselves will grant us a new perspective..

Life is a process of change.  Do we say we have learned all we could with no room for growth?   Our progress could have been swifter I once wrote.   Yes it could have, had not our commitments  taken us by their enormity.   Had not the awesome responsibilities of souls committed to us and by us not taken their time.  Yet we weave through lives of   commitment and see what are the products of those lives and find the results good.  And people will have an understanding of life not known before and the world will continue to turn and life will be lived with more depth.   And when we take those extra steps, together, there will be miles of progress called evolution. . .

A Process of Change

Winter, when I have had my fill of it,
leads me to yearn for the smell of the good earth
molding and fermenting that will make my roses bloom.

I do not yearn for the change to Autumn only when the Summer
has placed its unbearable burden on me and I can no longer carry it.

And when I have had enough of Autumn, that season that starts
with the famous explosions of color and ends with trees
in a condition of undress. . .

that I yearn for it all to be covered with the snow that
buries our mistakes.  And we go on again into Spring where
the stirrings of growth within our depths needs to be
reflected in our surroundings also. . .

Why cry then in my Self of nothing new to enliven my life
when already I hear the melody of a new song. . .

Can I sing of new worlds to conquer?

Photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.


No Space To Grow Bread. . .


No Space To Grow Bread. . .

They are young, you say,
with hormones raging in bodies
having no desire for libraries and
no entry monies for museums. . .

In these places
where soldiers in perilous times
are forever sowing seeds of freedom,
with farmers tilling soil of rocks and clay
to feed the freedom seekers. . .
and artists seek to feed Man’s Spirit. . .

Not concerned these young, I say,
while making brothers and sisters
like themselves, for they are
not yet ready for parenting.
Bedroom gymnastics are played
and little discipline practiced
in the games of musical beds
with its consequences.

We have seen
when burgeoning fantasies
take their energies and hormones
to crash with anger humankind’s
masterpieces with sledges,
to appease an appetite for revenge
out of control.

The children of hunger with
bloated stomachs starve to death.
Young girls are ravaged
and young boys savaged
while in the lives of elders there is
no hope of place for Spirit to rest.

My Earth is in peril
and the classroom in jeopardy.
There is no room and
our Earth is splitting its seams.
In good conscience,
no longer can we go forth and multiply.

There is no place and no space to grow bread.

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey


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