Archive | February, 2017

I Had Earned The Right. . .


Events take on proportion that surprise even us who experienced the event.  Wondering why in looking back they were significant to us when to others they would be a non event.  But to us they often are a turning point,  a point of growth and in that who we are now or what we must become hinged on that turning point.  Guard those moments carefully and study them.  What happens outside of us is nowhere as important as what happens within.  Those times we are in conference with the Divine within,  the God within.






I Had Earned The Right. . .

I had counted the steps
from my chair in the new room
to the front door.
I forget now how many,
but once I knew them by heart. . .

Like where the floor boards creaked;
where the carpet caught my heel,
crunching my slipper.
It was all real
and impinged on my mind. . .

I could bring them up,
each detail because
I knew them intimately while I
waited for your step upon the stair
to assure me I was not alone.

It was habit that drove me until
the day it was not necessary
to count the steps,
to check the door, to listen for the step
upon the stair.

I learned one day that
we are always safe and we are not alone.
Gift given but not without footwork,
not without heart work,
not without yearning. . .

I had earned the right to sleep.


Tracks. . .



Tracks. . .

Check on that for me
and find out whether the tracks
are a rabbit’s tracks.
See if in the new snow
they lead under the porch.

It has been such an old house
for so long,
even I think,
when it was first built.
It has seen
with eyes blinking rapidly,
so many goings and comings.

Even with carpeted floors,
the goings and comings
are loudly announced
by creaking floors that shout,
‘I am home!  I am alive!  I am here!’

The aware heart needs
no tracks in new snow
to know when love marches

through an old house.


We Don’t Junk Humans. . .

We Don’t Junk Humans. . .

People will always question the validity of one’s commitments and one’s purpose.  When I am questioned I can only say I see what is mine to see.  Regardless though of the mental and emotional garbage one carries,  there is always what someone does that has a redeeming value.  We must carry this thought in our minds at all times which is why we don’t junk humans.  There is always that redeeming factor.

Regardless of the excess garbage, there is that redeeming value of the commitment.  Where others are concerned,  there is a committed value which supersedes all else.  Here is a system of values based on the individual’s worth.  This worth he learns at the fireside, within the home,  before he leaves the front door.

With what he learns, each generation is either saved or not.  You cannot allow those to thrash in the sea of humanity neither having known love nor care.  This is necessary else you have a generation hopping in and out of bed looking for the lost father or the wandering mother who could not get out of their own way to tend to those chosen.

And we do choose because of the underlying value in each of us.  We wish to perfect who we are so in that honest judgment of ourselves, we choose to make good and right what we have not.

Just as in the underlying motion that keeps all planets  or worlds rolling,  the value beneath us all is the savory that makes the effort worthwhile.  Thinking heads may call it a benign motion but my knowledge leans toward good.  With gratitude I bow before the hard work of all Beings who work for the wellness of life everywhere.  For starters we don’t junk humans.

The Bards of Heaven

The gods have little to do about
the graying of the land
when shells explode and matter flies.

But in the homes
of compassion where love and
thirst for learning are never quenched,
these are the places
the bards of heaven check their hearts.

Too much too soon
it seems that life presents
its problems to souls intent
on games to be played.

So sorry we are for those
whose eyes intent on
greener fields have closed.
Maybe there comes a place
yet to be born in a heart
whose motive is one of purity.

to seek a nobler frame of reference.


From The Top Of My Heart. . .


(January 29, 2017 journal entry I want to share.  It is only in rereading that I realize that I connect all manner of things in thought.  It is the reason for my seamless existence.  It all connects.)

Man cannot put in what God has left out.  Joe Biden in the Clarence Thomas hearings said this one early morning.  My sister was visiting and was glued to the TV set and I was knitting.  It was nearing 2 a.m.   What did he say? I asked.  And she repeated man cannot put in what God has left out.  That’s my missing link I said.  That’s it. ( I have researched the maxim but never found the source other than Joe Biden.)

For no matter how hard you work and how much you love,  the person has to want whatever for himself otherwise it will have no meaning.   They will avoid you and your ministration because they know you want something from them but damn if they know what.  If it is outside their frame of reference all your talk in the world will have no meaning.  Because they will have no clue.  No clue.

Why do I have such difficulty with this aspect of humanity?  Because it means that the best teachers cannot do anything if the student does not yearn and learn.  Not once but for all time.

Does it mean that the teacher gives up?  The teacher has to exhibit and make the student want whatever he deems crucial.  It puts the yearning and learning on the student.  Only then will the lesson take.

Who taught me?  Many teachers and they loved me enough to keep on loving and exhibiting the lesson.  Because the love and trust and learning were not evident in this life when I needed them most.  I remembered from other times and wanted these things for myself.  How many lifetimes?  A zillion or maybe one.  I cannot know from the top of my heart.

I know without doubt that love is all that matters.  I know without doubt that virtue is in labor.  I know without doubt I bring value to my life.  And unless we bring meaning to our lives and world there is none.  We will sleep a long sleep and wake up when we tire of sleeping.  And get on the road again.

We are in the creation business and have been since we first jumped ship and went for expression.  At first we did it for sport but over time it became serious business.  How serious we know now when our planet is in dire jeopardy and we chance to lose our classroom.  We had better become stewards.  The unborn demand this of us.  Life demands accountability because the next time may require hip boots as we walk in ash.



Photo by Joe Hallissey Jr.


What I See. . .

On Different Perspectives. . . .

What is so apparent to you is not apparent to the Other.  To view with compassion is difficult when the vision of the Other is limited.  He/she would wish another just like them.  Just as you would wish to share your vision.  It is a common human condition and a psychological truth.  It makes good sense.

We would clone ourselves and in this way we would have the reassurance that we are just fine.  The insecurity that each projects is vivid.  Yet we know that if what one views is more accurate than the Other,  the perspective or vision is often disparaged.  If one can be patient,  time will confirm what one views.

Perspectives. . .

There is a need I see and
hurry to respond to before
calamity mounts and doubles the work.

You are driven by forces
different than mine and your gaze
dismisses the need I see.

Your eyes focus instead on another sight
which my eyes fail to see;
completely outside my frame of reference.

How is it our worlds differ so much
and yet are compatible enough
not to collide?

There is much to agree on;
much that has us separated,
yet even knowing this,

doubt makes us suspicious of others.
Worlds are born and remade by those like us.
We blur our edges to mesh smoothly.

We realize too late,
that in each head there is a world afloat
hoping for life everlasting.

Wars rage and people agitate
to fight ancient battles, to quiet ancient maladies,
but we are too old now, so pray,

they do not stir the ashes to bring forth another fire.
And on this we agree;
there are no more sons and daughters to spare.

Mothers and fathers are all cried out.


photo by Jon Katz



Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

Oftentimes the greater picture is chosen to be forgotten because it is necessary to have the script as authentic as possible.  If knowledge were part of the picture, chances for the lessons to be taught would be hampered.  So love is as powerful as the anguish and the angst  in their teaching the veracity of life.  How to let go of the feelings to prevent the corrosion of spirit when the need is no longer present?  By love of who you are and what you chose to be part of.  The lessons may be hidden at the moment, but in time you will know how quite wonderful you are.  To have affirmed the life giving properties so others may live.

Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

What’s the harm in it?
one asks, sitting
in the sun, wind lifting
tired hair.

She answers, no harm at all,
with two old friends
breaking bread.
It is good to recall
once fresh dreams.

Everything gained they agree.
Lives lived splendidly
according to script.
Lives mortgaged knowingly
so the Other could know
their moment in the sun.
They needed to learn
they were worthy.

For us it seemed
we chose it to be
a time out for us.

We raise our cups
in tribute to the great plan
enfolding us, evolution.

Choosing to make this difference.



art by Claudia Hallissey


This Valentine Heart. . .

It is a truth. . . . Sometimes we cannot improve upon a something that supports a truth and this is one of those times for me.   On this Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it.  One day it will be yours again.

It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are.  It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart.  You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars.  You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you.  Never were you abandoned.  Never.  This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart. . .

I lay my heart crimson in splendor
beneath the branches
on fresh fallen snow, open to my god. . .

Here it is I am, with all
that I’ve gathered, completed to form
just what you see.

The flakes have scattered
in splendid ways to carpet the floor
as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please
but handle with care.
Sorely I need a tender touch.

Life has tested me to rare form.
I worked it all like Job
and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart
laid splendid on the floor of the forest
but loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.


We Need Not Speak. . .



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.


The Illusion. . .






I try to grasp your beloved face,
graphically placing it on the mind’s canvas,
filling the valleys with fuller’s earth and
chiseling the planes with a serpent’s tooth.
Devouring every detail with a feverish eye
to circumvent time’s mortal immortality.

But why do I bother with mortal flesh
precluding the wonders of life everlasting?
I love you.  Simple.   Your brow extends
to captivate the eyes in locked conflict, then laughs
to meet the corners of your mouth wandering about
in search of a smile.

Your arms encircle the wonder of meeting
life on certain terms, then range in motion to
include the All.  A frantic mask we disengage
when discoveries make true a knowledge irredeemable.

But still I chase the memory of you
only minutes out the door.   I cannot remember the face
of you.   I know the strength, the laugh, the love
you reaped upon the wind to leave a mark on me.
I am forever different.   But the other, the package
assembled to meet specific requirements for this
particular place, are as specious as memory and
eradicated by time

like a pen and ink drawing.


Photo by Jon Katz


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